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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=428457" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Dome Of Sunday</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face <br>In film of varnish brightly fixed <br>And through a polished hand-lens deeply seen, <br>Sunday at noon through hyaline thin air <br>Sees down the street, <br>And in the camera of my eye depicts <br>Row-houses and row-lives: <br>Glass after glass, door after door the same, <br>Face after face the same, the same, <br>The brutal visibility the same; </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>As if one life emerging from one house <br>Would pause, a single image caught between <br>Two facing mirrors where vision multiplies <br>Beyond perspective, <br>A silent clatter in the high-speed eye <br>Spinning out photo-circulars of sight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I see slip to the curb the long machines <br>Out of whose warm and windowed rooms pirouette <br>Shellacked with silk and light <br>The hard legs of our women. <br>Our women are one woman, dressed in black. <br>The carmine printed mouth <br>And cheeks as soft as muslin-glass belong <br>Outright to one dark dressy man, <br>Merely a swagger at her curvy side. <br>This is their visit to themselves: <br>All day from porch to porch they weave <br>A nonsense pattern through the even glare, <br>Stealing in surfaces <br>Cold vulgar glances at themselves. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And high up in the heated room all day <br>I wait behind the plate glass pane for one, <br>Hot as a voyeur for a glimpse of one, <br>The vision to blot out this woman’s sheen; <br>All day my sight records expensively <br>Row-houses and row-lives. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But nothing happens; no diagonal <br>With melting shadow falls across the curb: <br>Neither the blinded negress lurching through fatigue, <br>Nor exiles bleeding from their pores, <br>Nor that bright bomb slipped lightly from its rack <br>To splinter every silvered glass and crystal prism, <br>Witch-bowl and perfume bottle <br>And billion candle-power dressing-bulb, <br>No direct hit to smash the shatter-proof <br>And lodge at last the quivering needle <br>Clean in the eye of one who stands transfixed <br>In fascination of her brightness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Karl+Shapiro">Karl Shapiro</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=428457" data-title="The Dome Of Sunday de Karl Shapiro" data-description="With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face 
In film of varnish brightly fixed 
And through a polished hand-lens deeply seen, 
Sunday at noon through hyaline thin air 
Sees down the street, 
And in the camera of my eye depicts 
Row-houses and row-liv..."></div>
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