The frescoed cloister is closed.
No echo of omniscience 
escapes to wind or metaphor.
A cottage holds three bowls, 
earthen and chipped, on a table 
made of planks smoothed by the surf. 
One holds buttermilk;
another, tomatoes pale as moons;
the third, eggs the color of sand.
On the sill you would place a globe
of ivory roses to echo
the dolphin skull beyond the pane,
and think how sonorous, how bold,
this science of solitude.