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172 MARY MOORE View from a Hotel in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; It is the window that makes it difficult To stop the whirlwind, balk the elements. Poetry is a finikin thing of air Singing, with smaller and still smaller sound, Is a cloud in which a voice mumbles. The poet mumbles and the painter sees, But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved Since what we think is never what we see. The plainness of plain things is savagery, In a repetitiousness of men and flies. Pipperoo, pippera, pipperum . . . The rest is rot. Widen your sense. All things in the sun are sun. Was the sun concoct for angels or for men? How high that highest candle lights the dark. A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky, Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing. And I taste at the root of the tongue the unreal of what is real. ...


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