COMPOSITION
Of all the elements--barn and corncrib,
Rusted Ford (once gray), and aimless chickens--
It is the car completes the piece.
A careless glance sees only Crossman's farm,
Chaos, decay. Never triangle for the eye;
No composition in that turnip patch.
Let chicory bloom blue
And tiger lilies fan themselves;
All that is well. But consider that line,
From rotting plank to edge of fender,
Thence to base of barn and spike of thistle;
This is fastidious Baroque,
Pure quattrocento; a Holy Family, say,
Mother, Child, Magi, rays of light
On an April afternoon. Seraphic fowl.
But without the car? Nothing. Drab tableau
On Highway Forty-nine. He never thought,
Old Crossman, when he parked his Ford
And slammed its door forever,
He'd arranged a scene for singing Alleluias,
Wreckage composed to Masterpiece.
