Her rooms shine like silver

with the light from overhead,

a steady stream of light

like at the cinema.

A lot of these descriptions are gently clever, like one of a filling station's garage, whose oil cans "softly say ESSO—SO—SO—SO / to high-strung automobiles."

And the same cleverness can also tilt you at things from an unexpected angle that leaves you stunned, like what Bishop does with the word "forever" in a poem about a dead child's wake:

Arthur was very small

He was all white, like a doll

that hadn't been painted yet.

Jack Frost had started to paint him

the way he always painted

the Maple Leaf (Forever).

He had just begun on his hair,

a few red strokes, and then

Jack Frost had dropped the brush

and left him white, forever.