From An Explanation of America LAIR Robert Pinsky Inexhaustible, delicate, as ifWithout source or medium, daylightUndoes the mind; the infinite, Empty actual is too bright, Scattering to where the roadWhispers, through a mile of woods ?Later, how quiet the house is: Dusk-like and refined, The sweet Phoebe-notePiercing from the trees;The calm globe of the morning, Things to read or to writeRanged on a table; the brainA dark, stubborn current that breathesBlood, a deaf wadding, The hands feeding it paperAnd sensations of wood or metalOn its own terms. Trying to readI persist a while, finish the recognitionBy my breath of a dead giant’s breath–Stayed by the space of a rhythm, Witnessing the blue gulf of the air.