Wallace Stevens wrote after all, then after all again. It was spots on the wall that made the most. A few partitioners relayed their facts, gifted in a place where marshes collect the dew and mist. Rains became the same expected, from southern winds across the bold and heartfelt ocean. Which is to say, a poetry, guided fondly, ran into being. Being here, telling something posed and remaining, the poet, this one, tried some lurches. We who read, or thought we did, popped into the bounty, for seconds on end. The poem really urged a more pliant remorse. This remorse is dandy today, with marks drawn across the state of Connecticut to indicate that the economy sucks. It has always sucked, deeply, imperiously, with goods and margin. Now, friends, it sucks with wolfish chuckle. Stevens did not exactly mean this, but he must have meant something with all those words aligned just so. Meaning is a force of nature, like a hurricane named Kyle. Yes, such a statement is ludicrous, Kyle is too odd a name to place on weight, but Stevens worked out his messages with a deliberation that seems easy to respond to. We should vote him some award, for being so perfectly acceptable. He numbers one of many, but still resumes his clauses. He could have lived in Worcester, had he only tried.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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