Poetry

Admit coming upon the fallen horse at evening,
now asleep but withered, now reducing as you near, now

We have gone through
so many revisions of the prelude
that we no longer know

Across Eastern Parkway the camera
recognized his walk,
neither absent-minded nor harried.

[…]

In the portrait of Jefferson that hangs
at Monticello, he is rendered two-toned:
his forehead white with illumination—