Was not of cream-capped waves
coming to shore like dead loves.
Was not of the gala of glasses
raised in celebration of indolent youth.

Was not of ancient towers,
crenellated lines of history.
Was not of olive groves
fading into Attic seas.

Was not of steel and glass fingers
reaching to vacant victory.
Was not of an empty field,
October-brown, bird-deserted.

Was not of muggers’ walkways,
splashed with knife graffiti.
Was not of perfect white mountains,
receding till the eye refuses.

Was not of a crowd of ghosts
hunting their lost wishes.

The view was this:
it was not what you needed or wanted,
the view was beyond you,
the view was beyond.

(painting by Odilon Redon)