It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem. - Wallace Stevens

This will make widows wince. But fictive things Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged

Where he could lie and gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.

... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves,
So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound.

Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self,
Impalpable habitations that seem to move
In the movement of the colors of the mind.

Confused illuminations and sonorities,
So much ourselves, we cannot tell apart
the idea and bearer - being of
the idea....