“Any critic of Cezanne who described him as a painter of country scenes would be moving in the wrong direction. You must begin with the question of style . . . ”

signal the presence of a river. 
A side road leads us on— 
parched grass, a rock horizon— 

The sun flung out at the foot of the tree
A perfect shadow on snow: we found that we
Were suddenly walking through this replica,

The limbs of the giant spruce that leans
  So close to the house, have formed
A kind of stair, a walkway

The child floats out his Indian cry
Across the river. Where did the Mohawks go to?
It arrives with the breath of mudflats as we pass by

Reading this, you are waiting for the curtain
        To go up on a glade, vistaed valley
Or colonnade of lath. Yet you are not here

A door: 
             PER L’UNIVERSO 
                        is what it says 

Ranges
              of clinker heaps
                           go orange now:

Rock reproduces rock
In miniature
On rock

The seascape shifts

Between the minutest interstices of time
Blue is blue.