Liberties

Oh how I rejoice          that you are sky and kaleidoscope           that you have so many artificial stars       that you glow in a monstrance of brightness,                      when I place your perforated                      half-globe                      over my eyes                      under the air.          How unstrained in abundance,          oh colander spoon!   The stove too is beautiful: it has tiles and chinks, it may be grizzled,                silver,               gray—even drowsy. . .  but especially when it shuffles its glints or as it sets and through the whole rhythm of its imperfections whitely poured               in charred bells it flows into elements of monumental bedding.