Pieces

Wallace, you are too kind to share with me....

Pieces

Wallace Stevens.

Tinsel in February, tinsel in August.

These are things in a man besides his reason.

Come home, wind, he kept crying and crying.

Snow glistens in its instant in the air,

Instant of millefiori bluely magnified---

Come home, wind, he said as he climbed the

stair---

Crystal on crystal until crystal clouds

Become an over-crystal out of ice,

Exhaling these creations of itself.

There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.

The tinsel of August falling was like a flame

That breathed on ground, more blue than red,

more red

Than green, fidgets of all-related fire.

The wind is like a dog that runs away.

But it is like a horse. It is like motion

That lives in space. It is a person at night,

A member of the family, a tie,

An ethereal cousin, another milleman.