Is it he or is it I that experience this? - Wallace Stevens

Is there a poem that never reaches words<p> And one that chaffers the time away? Is the poem both peculiar and general? There’s a meditation there, in which there seems To be an evasion, a thing not apprehended or Not apprehended well. Does the poet Evade us, as in a senseless element?

In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.

The President has apples on the table And barefoot servants round him, who adjust The curtains to a metaphysical "t"