Far from the clams and fogs and bogs
—The cranberry bogs—of Ipswich,
A sampler cast upon a savage shore,
There dwells in a turquoise, unfrequented store
A painter; a painter of land and seascapes.
At nine o’clock, past Su-Su
—Asleep on the threshold, a spirited
Dwarf Pekinese, exceptionally loving—
The sun of Southern California streams
Unlovingly, but as though lovingly,
Upon the spare, paint-spotted and age-spotted hand’s
Accustomed gesture.
Beyond the mahlstick a last wave
Breaks in Cobalt, Vert Emeraude, and Prussian Blue
Upon a Permanent White shore.
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