Wallace Stevens


I’ll try sitting under
your palm tree
for a while in this summer
although the mind of winter
still presides over this room.

How often have I wanted
to meet you on the train
as you went to work
in the morning,
to look over your shoulder?

What would i see –
or was it just held in you,
refined over and over,
distilled to be bottled
in a safe factory?

Left to devour the minutes of the day
and notice that Being sitting in the corner –
that great end of motion – to know
some fine flavour struck your taste
one day before you died.


(I am full of ochre and turmoil)


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