for D. G. someone
raised in a landscape short of rain

Someone imagines that he sees a cat
Crouching in these hot hills—another burns
For the lounging odalisk which he discerns
Couched in the same duncolored folds of what
Is, underneath, mere stone—despite its range
Of attitudes, characters, reveries . . . .
Two of the nearer hills, encouraged, rise
Slowly and languorously stretching change

Into a form made of the appetite
To find a form there, let the mind’s eye trace
Imaginary lines to metaphor—
A cat? A woman? A moment and no more:
Mirages ordinary to a place
Stingy with water, generous with light.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 7, on page 44
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