Variations on a Neo-Classical Theme

--Donald Justice

It's not a landscape from too near.

Like sorrows, they are require some distance

Not to bulk larger than they are.

The risk is, backing off too far.

But finger trees are hand from here,

The wounds of mines, the growth of pines

Both appear and disappear.

There's but a shagginess remains,

An olive or a purple haze,

The nice unshaven atmosphere

Of average faces, average hills.

Whatever goats are dancing there,

Being all invisible,

Animate objects of a will

Contemplative without desire,

Suffer no vertigo at all

But dance until our spirits tire,

Or dine forever, or until

The speculative garbage fail--

Tin cans and comic books-- which small

Imaginary campers there

Forgot against this very hour.