of the sky is passing over us.
Soon the world will have moved on.
Your love affair, what is it
but a tempest in a teapot?
But such storms exude strange
resonance: The power of the Almighty
reduced to its infinitesimal root
hangs like the chant of bees,
the milky drooping leaves of the birch
on a windless autumn day -
Call these phenomena or pinpoints,
remote as the glittering trash of heaven,
yet the monstrous frame remains,
filling uo with regret, with straw,
or on another level with the quick grace
of the singing, falling snow.
You are good at persuading
them to sing with you.
Above you, horses graze forgetting
daylight inside the barn.
Creeper dangles against rock-face.
Pointed roofs bear witness.
The whole cast of characters is imaginary
now, but up ahead, in shadow, the past waits.
John Ashbery, Notes from the Air, Selected later poems
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