NOVEL OF FATAL EXERCISE
The hellish windows will not stop opening. How best to make use of them. The sharpest student among you will spot oranges in the grass without finding either "oranges" or "grass"
—small fires in the eye, or they are fruit, or they are gone.
I would remove all these birds, but I am too lazy to pick our skies with a fine comb.
The next movement: paint the forest gray. It is a hard thing to find oneself not a painter, but take heart—such deficiencies are not moral, but rather ethical.
There is another alternative.
You can be quiet. You don’t have to talk.
You don’t have to talk to me if you think you are going to die right now.
This poem witnesses a preoccupation with the conditions of cinematic sight: the theoretical considerations that precede and permit it, and the practical strategies for manipulating visual surfaces that such a mode of seeing recommends. In particular, I latched onto an anecdote about Michelangelo Antonioni's efforts to paint the trees of a coniferous forest gray. He failed, beautifully.