Wallace Stevens

    The great poet came to me in a dream， walking toward me in a house

    drenched¹ with August light. It was late afternoon and he was old，

    past a hundred， but virile²， fit，leonine.  I loved that my seducer³

    had lived more than a century and a quarter.  What difference

    does age make？  We began to talk about the making of poems， how

    I craved⁴ his green cockatoo when I was young， named my Key West

    after his， like a parent naming a child  "George Washington." He was

    not wearing the business suit I'd expected， nor did he have the bored

    Rushmore countenance⁵ of the familiar portrait.  His white tee shirt

    was snug⁶ over robust⁷ chest and belly⁸， his golden hair long， his beard

    full as a biker's.  How many great poets ride a motorcycle？  We

    were discussing the limits of image， how impossible for word

    to personate entirely⁹ thing：  "sea，" ocean an August afternoon；  "elm，"

    heartbreak of American boulevards after the slaughter¹⁰

    of sick old beautiful trees.  "I have given up language，" he said.

    The room was crowded and noisy， so I thought I'd misheard.

    "Given up words？"  "Yes， but not poems，" he said， whereupon

    he turned away， walking into darkness.  Then it was cooler， and

    we were alone in the gold room.  "Here is a poem，" he said， proffering¹¹

    a dry precisely¹² formed leaf， on it two dead insects I recognized

    as termites¹³， next to them a tiny flag of scarlet¹⁴ silk no larger than

    the price sticker on an antique brooch.  Dusky red， though once

    bright， frayed¹⁵ but vivid.  Minute replica¹⁶ of a matador's provocation¹⁷？

    Since he could read my spin of association， he was smiling， the glee

    of genius.  "Yes，" he said， "that is the poem."  A dead leaf？  His grin was

    implacable. Dead， my spinner brain continued， but beautiful.  Edge

    curling， carp-shaped， color of  bronze or verdigris¹⁸.  Not one， but two

    termites—dead.  To the pleasures of dining on sill or floor joist， of

    eating a house， and I have sold my house.  I think of my friend finding

    termites when she reached， shelf suddenly dust on her fingers，

    library tumbling， the exterminator's bill.  Rapacious¹⁹ bugs²⁰ devour²¹，

    a red flag calls up the poem：  Blood.  Zinnia.  Emergency. Blackbird's

    vermillion epaulet. Crimson²² of  manicure. Large red man reading，

    handkerchief red as a clitoris peeking²³ from his deep tweed pocket—

    Suddenly he was gone， gold draining from the walls， but the leaf，

    the leaf was in my hand， and in the silence I heard an engine howl，

    and through the night that darkened behind the window， I saw

    light bolt forward， the tail of a comet smudge black winter sky.