Will the little figures ever reach the monument?
A doctor orders me to be on watch.
Will the mist pass over their cheeks
and clear the strollers’ eyes?
If so, I’ll see it. I’m on watch.
I train my eyes on paintings
to see if there is any change.
My patient draws
a blank on landscapes on his walls.
What did Daubigny observe that pastel afternoon .
that made him want to live?
What did Fairfield Porter want to stretch
across the sky, blue pennant ofa family park?
Watcher, stop — you’ve been thinking of artists with some fame;
look to the person wiping out his name.
In time the impasse
of the monitored one’s mouth
changes from pale sky
to a kindling of light above the trees.
Unmoving water-studies stir.
“Look now. It will never be more fascinating,”
Schuyler said and I do.
But I couldn’t always see,
and I can’t see him at all anymore.
He lived through this vigilance a year.
On occasion, in the mirror, I recognize
the ghost of my old post,
a dim print of my assigned design,
while keeping myself, my meaning
something to live for, in full view.
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