Ashbery, Ode to Bill

Some things we do take up a lot more time
And are consi­de­red a fruit­ful, natu­ral thing to do.
I am coming out of one way to behave
Into a plo­wed corn­field. On my left, gulls,
On an inland vaca­tion. They seem to mind the way I write.
Or, to take ano­ther example : last month
I vowed to write more. What is wri­ting ?
Well, in my case, it’s get­ting down on paper
Not thoughts, exact­ly, but ideas, maybe :
Ideas about thoughts. Thoughts is too grand a word.
Ideas is bet­ter, though not pre­ci­se­ly what I mean.
Someday I’ll explain. Not today though.
I feel as though someone had made me a vest
Which I was wea­ring out of doors into the coun­try­side
Out of loyal­ty to the per­son, although
There is no one to see, except me
With my inner vision of what I look like.
The wea­ring is both a duty and a plea­sure
Because it absorbs me, absorbs me too much.
One horse stands out irre­gu­lar­ly against
The land over there. And am I recei­ving
The vision ? Is it mine, or do I alrea­dy owe it
For other visions, unno­ti­ced and unre­cor­ded
On the great, relaxed curve of time,
All the for­got­ten springs, drop­ped pebbles,
Songs once heard that then pas­sed out of light
Into eve­ry­day obli­vion ? He moves away slow­ly,
Looks up and pumps the sky, a lin­ge­ring
Question. Him too we can sacri­fice
To the end of pro­gress, for we must, we must be moving on.