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a picture postcard to my own boyhood
There is containment by small
brown mountains, by the Channel
waters that run in upon
the shores and sleek and litter
the sand; the pale fi rm islands
shut in the swarming lights and
cross-moves of the Pacifi c --
as if a topographic
ordering of the desires
lay ready; in season, low
clouds will form, and, thunderless,
come in changing rapidly,
set loose their spattering rains
and sweep off , torn by short winds --
the diversity of shore,
hill, and gorge is clarifi ed
with stands of rough, bulbous oak,
a luminous sycamore
here and there, somberly thirst-
ing eucalyptus, mustard
washed yellow over the slopes --
nicely scaled for the human
eye, under a small soft sky
suggesting that, if you wished,
you might walk to what you see
anywhere here, observe it,
and make your way back during
the morning hours, through the trees.