Frame by Frame.

& the light is green in the center gallery, Marbled through a grimy halfmoon transom; voices Here garble. Too many choices fan ahead; We might glide past ranks of flat canvases Receding far into darkness, or ask the guard Who hooks together rude velvet fences Which halls are handsome, needing to be viewed. He folds His whistle backward in his shirt & points. These window scenes defy all senses but The eye. Each shallow is a hollow girt With gold under gilt matte-gilt lumber. So many Visions: chopped, vistas edited. Clutching at imagination's bottle, Yet freezing out the taste, the touch. Cruel testing: Teasing fires with fuel, demanding length Of the imagination, but hot to melt The edges down like sills of paraffin. No wonder smug ancients cropped our earth Rug-flat; their wind-blown gryphons, flecked alligtors Stalking map-edges, outshone the faulty Topographics, preoccupying navigators Brave enough to face the ocean's lip. Only Faith inspires spherical decisions. With Dreamsight pared away, the blinder, the wiser.