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The trees tonight are standing still
As slides, a dull November matte
With leaves as dappled as real
October apples are wreathed in fat

And spackled like all rotten fruit,
Still-life knees as freckled as a girl,
Their limbs removed from 3D movies to
This flattened showing on a parlor wall,

Its Andalusian plaster lit like bark,
Its pastel adobe gone to dark,
Radio City Music Hall Rockettes
Reduced by light to video,

To a TV set by popular demand,
By shadows on the pixeled bough,
By hours on the second hand,
By sunshine on the winter cloud

To bring us one
Dimension of a summer pine
Whose storyline begins
With the camera's dim projection

Of the dust at dawn
On the eye's myopic film,
A film that fades to grey at night
And rises in the day like sight.