Be the voice of night and Florida in my ear. Use dusky words and dusky images. Darken your speech. Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking, B… - Wallace Stevens

It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea. When shall I come to say of the sun, It is a sea; it shares nothing; The sun no longer shares our works And the earth is alive with creeping men, Mechanical beetles never quite warm? And shall I then stand in the sun, as now I stand in the moon, and call it good, The immaculate, the merciful good, Detached from us, from things as they are? Not to be part of the sun? To stand Remote and call it merciful? The strings are cold on the blue guitar.

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

A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned — A cymbal crashed, Amid roaring horns.