I like Rhine wine, blue grapes, good cheese, endive and lots of books, etc., etc., etc., as much as I like supreme fiction. - Wallace Stevens

Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the
moon.
It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing he
could be told.
It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know.
It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak.

There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain, So many clappers going without bells, That these bethous compose a heavenly gong. <p> One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, The phrases of a single phrase, ke-ke, A single text, granite monotony

He is and may be but oh! He is, he is, This foundling of the infected past, so bright, So moving in the manner of his hand. Yet look not at his colored eyes. Give him No names. Dismiss him from your images. The hot of him is purest in the heart.