We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in cold. - Wallace Stevens

Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf. This arrival in the wild country of the soul, All approaches gone, being completely there, Where the wild poem is a substitute For the woman one loves or ought to love, One wild rhapsody a fake for another.<p>You touch the hotel the way you touch moonlight Or sunlight and you hum and the orchestra Hums and you say "The world in a verse,<p>A generation sealed, men remoter than mountains, Women invisible in music and motion and color," After that alien, point-blank, green and actual Guatemala.

Nothing had happened because nothing had changed. Yet the General was rubbish in the end.

The poet is a god, or, the young poet is a god. The old poet is a tramp.