From An Explanation of America:LAIRRobert PinskyInexhaustible, delicate, as ifWithout source or medium, daylightUndoes the mind; the infinite,Empty actual is too bright,Scattering to where the roadWhispers, through a mile of woods Later, how quiet the house is:Dusk-like and refined,The sweet Phoebe-notePiercing from the trees;The calm globe of the morning,Things to read or to writeRanged on a table; the brainA dark, stubborn current that breathesBlood, a deaf wadding,The hands feeding it paperAnd sensations of wood or metalOn its own terms. Trying to readI persist a while, finish the recognitionBy my breath of a dead giant's breath--Stayed by the space of a rhythm,Witnessing the blue gulf of the air.