A collage

Let me ask:

Why did she measure its solitude to the hour?
The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper—
the sky above Walden's pond.

“Beauty is truth, truth is beauty” hardly seems a reason,
nor does Talent.

Did the sea of her singing open its caverns
th’oo de bresh of angel’s wings?
or did the song of her singing
appear only while he watched his woods fill with snow?

—the man in the black coat that
turned and writhed in fever,
with a grave, meticulous ball beside the sea. . .
Jesus
he was a handsome man
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision
     or you had a vision or he had a vision to found out Eternity
past midnight in clear rime. . .


Before you answer, allow me to remind you:

Sugar is not a vegetable;
bonsais are inedible;
rivers are damp and
parrot-brilliant patches, indelible.


(A silly late-night poem for ENGL 322.)