Stretching Canvases

By the last of the light, I pull

Over firm stretcher-bars

The ends of the last canvas

You wanted, miter the corners

Like sheets on a guest-bed,

And staple them on tight.

Stark white, three in a row

Are leaning on our house

To catch at the sunset.

From their surfaces, the stream

Of the undivided spectrum-

The whole palette of light-

Has put out both my eyes.

Good luck, my darling.

I can't see a thing.

My hammer flustered crows

All afternoon, kept jays

Out of the hazel trees.

I'm an aimless carpenter,

And now it's going to be winter

By the rule of this blue thumb.

We need storm-windows,

Glassy and colorless

In frames exactly like these.

Good luck to the canvas

Under the boxer's back

And the sail over the circus;

And good luck, facing you,

To the three against the wall

Which may be windows yet.

Keeping the storms in mind

And brushing the sky light

Like the stubble of the wind,

Look through, darling, look through.