August Morning

The Madonna of the Rocks is not a picture. It is a window. We look through a window into the pure world of over-mind.

—H. D., “Notes on Thought and Vision”

As the body of the beloved is a windowthrough which you behold the vastness of spacepulsing with stars, and as the man

on the corner with his fruit stand is a window,and the cherries, blackberries, raspberriesavocados and carrots are a rose window

though the man is tired in the summer heatand reads his newspaper listlessly, without passionand people pass his stand buying nothing

is not this scene a window looking outnot at a paradise but as a paradisemight be, if one had eyes to see

the girls in their clinging dresses, the babies in their strollersinfinitely soft: clear window after clear window