yu mean when Picasso/mix red an green

I call/That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands/Worked busily a day,

What the hammer? What the chain,/In what furnace was thy brain?

He had a job to do. Solutions slop in trays/beneath his hands

He cooked like a person/dancing/in a yoga meditation

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,/So haggard and woe-begone?

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks/Within his bending sickle's compass come:

The bushes hold their breath; the sun is gone./Yes, here you are. But where are they who sought you?

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

So he waited, beyond onceupona,/Out of reach of all the timefors,/And knew he'd escape for ever

It grows back, a stump of a shoot/grows longer, grows moist, grows strong veins

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

Last One:

"A strangers features/faintly start to twist before his eyes,/a half-formed ghost."