Yesterday, for a long while,
the early morning sunlight
in the trees was sufficient,
replaced by a hello
from a long-limbed woman
pedaling her bike,
whereupon the wind came up,
dispersing the mosquitoes.
Blessings, all.
I’d come so far, it seemed,
happily looking for so little.

But then I saw a cow in a room
looking at the painting of a cow
in a field — all of which
was a painting itself —
and I felt I’d been invited
into the actual, someplace
between the real and the real.

The trees, now, are trees
I’m seeing myself seeing.
I’ll always deny that I kissed her.
I was just whispering into her mouth.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Stephen Dunn's poem Slant

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