On that Impressionist canvas,
much praised, classic now,
ladies quietly parachute
with parasols—
for the view, the viewer,
a few men there as foil,
little pendant, supplement,
into the park.
By a river, nonetheless,
yet so straight
as if they too
had been trained
by ashen-covenant nuns
in strict Latin rules,
having such women too
remained firmly set
against bending their backs
as they stand or idly sit
like odd kingfishers,
deft anglers
daintily engrossed
in shades of greens,
blues, pinks,
strands of pink.
And with them, indeed,
the whole space
reveals itself far
from meaningless
or empty: a geometry
of vast-cast net,
lines and points
crossing one another—
unless one's mind,
one's desire,
already turned
too dead to hear,
to see the notes
in a world
that leaves so much
unsaid.
Just as the small puppy down below
rushes to meet a canine bottom
cut off by the frame, insensate
to the monkey, feeble as shade,
by the foremost lady's toes.
