I write this poem for Wallace Stevens. I read 'Invective Against Swans' yesterday and cried.
I bequeth unto his moon and sacred the wet light.
Swanning Against Discord's heart
Bronze rains laurels and fits entrails,
Crowns the burning cord of mouthing ganders.
The park, bound in vanity, hoofs the crush,
Homes for the cankering of war marches.
All the valved voices foot along a dead rust.
The confused fetlocks of summer invect
The Golden Apple to the barren winds;
They pregnant the muck of blowing feathers
Inisde the hollow of earthly sweetness.
I stop the chill of Her chariot-sails,
Inveigh with the stars and shine radiance;
I return the twain of Her to the flanks,
Solid her steed.
I mount my soul,
Praise and white the gleam of healing blanks.
I sacrament these tides and descend from
The skies beyond.
I accept my sorrow, O fair Helen,
And swan-foot the sand pearls of my Troy.
I walk unvalved.
The whole of my voice toes beaches in sand;
I glass and anoint with bright, living tears.
I gentle Discord's mouth, swan her the waves.
Inside foam and salt, I warble my heart
As I kiss Her so beneath the pale moon.