Of the Surface of Things
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
Hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
‘The spring is like a belle undressing.’
The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
Wallace Stevens, Of the Surface of Things, in Harmonium (1923)
(questo è il mood di questi giorni in cui si parla ossessivamente di pavimentazioni a scacchi)