Bellosguardo (for Peter Porter at eighty) Re-triggered, I now recall that nor-west corner in thick heat, and stumping along above the Carmine by a tread-road's unhurried winding and some lazy lizards doing a late scuttle just as I presumably came to his near-piazza, one reno-villa sprawled below me; another leftward, higher, solid with flame-pink cyclamens nestled in that umbrageous dark, like historical truth or the destinies he was painfully trying there to unravel.
The dream injunctions
'I want to drive along thin, lost roads.'
The hand has its firm grip on the fist.He who ties a knot around his thumb has other knots up his sleeve, for himself. I meant this May but appeared to say, dismay.The police think you can eat French bread without salt.What a funny way to spell Chekhov, asking him to magnificently elaborate.There are no coyotes east of Boston.My head is full of books in the dialect of Ouch.All people fall into one or another of three categories.The Stendhalians have also buried theirs.Take the keys and hide them somewhere safe in the car.Being asleep with glasses on, you might bite your tongue.It will be alright, Leavis is one of the passengers.You can't get up by canvas: it's all a matter of glitz.One can say, not tonight, pineapple.It all takes place because of some geological fault.I think God understands more things than he is given credit for.
You, Wallace Stevens
'Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.'
After the flim-flam and that hullabalooWhen Doubtful slouches past the lagunariaTo scratch out moments of ascendancy
Or peace, the butcher's curse, like precedence,He wishes he could sip an iced kachangUnder some academic's pergola.
Could it have been that warping dominieProclaiming tariffs over subsidies?No, it must have been the daggy worse
And so to pillows. Or the pillow-book,Something oriental for the clavichord,Setting blue thongs down by the pool
Where orange carp dawdle. Ole. Ole.But who is garnering shillings for the icecapWhich might be on the fatal downward slope?
Your polar bear will never scan these lines,Nor metaphysical orang-utan;Our fiery weather spirits them away
With dolorous drip and fatal forest-fallsWhile we lounge, reading their anatomiesIn bronze Novembers near Apollo Bay.
For so retentive of their feral selvesAre men, that Doubtful puts his doubt to bedWith lazy glances at the fiscal news.
Chekhov days
But it's all as thoughthey're stuck there, in eitherCastlemaine or Benallawaiting for grants to come through from Ozcoand there's no remaining postmanor else the highway is cutby those recent floods.
They swap