The window, a wide pane in the bare
modern wall, is crossed by colorless
peeling trunks of the eucalyptus
recurring against raw sky-color.
It wakes me, and my eyes rest on it,
sharpening, and seeking merely all
of what can be seen, the substantial,
where the things themselves are adequate.
So I observe them, able to see
them as they are, the neutral sections
of trunk, spare, solid, lacking at once
disconnectedness and unity.
There is a tangible remoteness
of the air about me, its clean chill
ordering every room of the hill-
top house, and convoking absences.
Calmly, perception rests on the things,
and is aware of them only in
their precise definition, their fine
lack of even potential meanings.
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