Could somebody please critique this poem?

"Artist"

To make imaginings real is not

so difficult - this painting that I've got

half-done grew from my first reflecting that

a meld of hilly landscapes with the flat

would change straight lines of depth that merge,

toward point of vanishing converge -

they, depth-ward into distance shrinking,

diminuating sign-waves now become

A place as uniform as plane is this,

though hilly as one upland drizzles kiss,

but morning scene, sea-surge-like suburb-scape

from eaves-height viewed through eyes tear-eddies drape.

Impose, on third-D sign-waves growing small,

elliptic ripples, major axes all

contracting, snaking down horizon rays:

The anonym is blue some summer days.

Perhaps that background city's made him sad,

a tedium he grows less and less glad

to go to weekday mornings in that town,

some parabolic tower's looming frown.

Jack Mellender