He was so eager to lie on reality's ordinary board, Wallace Stevens,
even not on spikes
as I to escape a dull-it, unread, walking afternoon
Winners tell us nothing by mubles like ours on a bright morning.
Fictive sounds I make for comedy
are put against a sun, a blue air less imaginable than any browned guitar's
thump on fingers outside the heart
or nearly in the circuit of its reach.
I am not student, borrowing a better's thought
nor bold enough to steal. Who's awakward enough to dance
appropriately at my later time? With Stevens dead, can we make up a ghost
to shine and make the noon startling
or to endure, in the framed midnight, with all our poems?
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