Doctor, you say there are no haloes br around the streetlights in Paris br and what I see is an aberration br caused by old age, an affliction. br I tell you it has taken me all my life br to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, br to soften and blur and finally banish br the edges you regret I don't see, br to learn that the line I called the horizon br does not exist and sky and water, br so long apart, are the same state of being. br Fifty-four years before I could see br Rouen cathedral is built br of parallel shafts of sun, br and now you want to restore br my youthful errors: fixed br notions of top and bottom, br the illusion of three-dimensional space, br wisteria separate br from the bridge it covers. br What can I say to convince you br the Houses of Parliament dissolves br night after night to become br the fluid dream of the Thames? br I will not return to a universe br of objects that don't know each other, br as if islands were not the lost children br of one great continent. The world br is flux, and light becomes what it touches, br becomes water, lilies on water, br above and below water, br becomes lilac and mauve and yellow br and white and cerulean lamps, br small fists passing sunlight br so quickly to one another br that it would take long, streaming hair br inside my brush to catch it. br To paint the speed of light! br Our weighted shapes, these verticals, br burn to mix with air br and change our bones, skin, clothes br to gases. Doctor, br if only you could see br how heaven pulls earth into its arms br and how infinitely the heart expands br to claim this world, blue vapor without end.