5167. THE PLAIN SENSE OF THINGS

THE PLAIN SENSE 

OF THINGS

In reading Wallace Stevens you

may see  -  go ahead, see  -  this

title strangely bare. It captures very

well the passings of the urge. The 

urge to go. The urge to do.

-

(Inanimate in an inert savior, this

is the end of my imagination. This

scented old age ('the bare, ruined

choirs where once the sweet birds 

sang'). Yet the absence of imagination

that to had to be imagined.

-

Now the twaddle. Now the grip.

All that loosened stuff upon the

chart set free and let off, to go

astray, to turn into a new and

wandering distemper of the staff

and quarter madness. (My heart

sings hymns at Heaven's gate).