Suite

And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
A pallid yellow lingers
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Away from their profundity of surface.
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
For any part of them we can make out
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc