And if the cliffs themselves produced the major illusion.
Cannot without the sun, the flaming instroke
direct and personal, the haystack on the peak.

And if the flashing hay could produce the illusion.
Cannot without the sea beneath and blue
on accurate margin the surfboard boy returned
tiny from the Pacific to a fabulous shore.

And if the seascape could produce the illusion.
Cannot without whole scene  city and oilfield
in metal forests to the hills' mirage,
Hollywood and the high bare brilliant mountains.
Illusion of calm over a minute plain
in steepness opened, an overheated landscape,
familiar in movies and recurrent dreams.

O prism of summer and produced illusion:
absolute calm. Past newsreel, print, and view,
vicarious true images, do you see, over the
high-flying plain below you, over the harbor,
over the city, over this precipice,
do you see hot grass, mile-off countries, fire-surfaced sea,
obsessions of sight cliff-hung, as movie, as peace?