Richard Marggraf Turley

Vanishing

Low hills prismed like a back-
drop in a Perugino,
rectangles rising from the eye's
station point by degrees
to a warm sky.
The greens - deep at first,
cooler towards the thirty-
miles horizon, perfectly
impossible until Alhazen
and the conical projection
of light - surprise.
These fields here
advance a single point
even a child could grasp.
Strange to myself, I
flounder among the
angles, watch the real,
disappearing.

 

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