it’s 10 o’clock

They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
The line between the outside and this room
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Where, as I discover as I go through
I seek, above all, in the wandering
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Covering the land—
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Not daring to oppose
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
For any part of them we can make out