Finally, vision. A quiet event
I had to be shown. Dead-end
angles of alley and tenement
hid it unneatly. You paused. Looked.
Here? These sunless, cindered-
brick walls, looted trashcans
huddled in a grim geometry
floored by weeds?—a scene
of neglect if not despair,
undenied, certifiable truth
your canvas and oils quickly set
dancing! Reds ignited bricks,
umber tones smoldered under
silver trashcans, a sourceless
sun washing everything, weeds,
walls, like nourishing rain,
your shower of almost obstinate
love of it. Now, your latest
letter tells, that outlook livens
an accountant’s office, un-
avoidable junctures of white
walls and ceilings, solar blanks
greeting guests, acrylic greens
of ferns, with joy to spare.