I write this poem for Wallace Stevens. I read 'Invective Against Swans' yesterday and cried.

I bequeth unto his moon and sacred the wet light.

 Swanning Against Discord's heart

Bronze rains laurels and fits entrails,         

Crowns the burning cord of mouthing ganders.

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The park, bound in vanity, hoofs the crush,      

Homes for the cankering of war marches.

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All the valved voices foot along a dead rust.

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The confused fetlocks of summer invect   

The Golden Apple to the barren winds;

They pregnant the muck of blowing feathers

Inisde the hollow of earthly sweetness.

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I stop the chill of Her chariot-sails,

Inveigh with the stars and shine radiance;

I return the twain of Her to the flanks,

Solid her steed.

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I mount my soul,

Praise and white the gleam of healing blanks.

I sacrament these tides and descend from

The skies beyond.

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I accept my sorrow, O fair Helen,

And swan-foot the sand pearls of my Troy.

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I walk unvalved.

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The whole of my voice toes beaches in sand;

I glass and anoint with bright, living tears.

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I gentle Discord's mouth, swan her the waves.

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Inside foam and salt, I warble my heart

As I kiss Her so beneath the pale moon.