Wallace Stevens

    The great poet came to me in a dream， walking toward me in a house

    drenched with August light. It was late afternoon and he was old，

    past a hundred， but virile， fit，leonine.  I loved that my seducer

    had lived more than a century and a quarter.  What difference

    does age make？  We began to talk about the making of poems， how

    I craved his green cockatoo when I was young， named my Key West

    after his， like a parent naming a child  "George Washington." He was

    not wearing the business suit I'd expected， nor did he have the bored

    Rushmore countenance of the familiar portrait.  His white tee shirt

    was snug over robust chest and belly， his golden hair long， his beard

    full as a biker's.  How many great poets ride a motorcycle？  We

    were discussing the limits of image， how impossible for word

    to personate entirely thing：  "sea，" ocean an August afternoon；  "elm，"

    heartbreak of American boulevards after the slaughter

    of sick old beautiful trees.  "I have given up language，" he said.

    The room was crowded and noisy， so I thought I'd misheard.

    "Given up words？"  "Yes， but not poems，" he said， whereupon

    he turned away， walking into darkness.  Then it was cooler， and

    we were alone in the gold room.  "Here is a poem，" he said， proffering

    a dry precisely formed leaf， on it two dead insects I recognized

    as termites， next to them a tiny flag of scarlet silk no larger than

    the price sticker on an antique brooch.  Dusky red， though once

    bright， frayed but vivid.  Minute replica of a matador's provocation？

    Since he could read my spin of association， he was smiling， the glee

    of genius.  "Yes，" he said， "that is the poem."  A dead leaf？  His grin was

    implacable. Dead， my spinner brain continued， but beautiful.  Edge

    curling， carp-shaped， color of  bronze or verdigris.  Not one， but two

    termites—dead.  To the pleasures of dining on sill or floor joist， of

    eating a house， and I have sold my house.  I think of my friend finding

    termites when she reached， shelf suddenly dust on her fingers，

    library tumbling， the exterminator's bill.  Rapacious bugs devour，

    a red flag calls up the poem：  Blood.  Zinnia.  Emergency. Blackbird's

    vermillion epaulet. Crimson of  manicure. Large red man reading，

    handkerchief red as a clitoris peeking from his deep tweed pocket—

    Suddenly he was gone， gold draining from the walls， but the leaf，

    the leaf was in my hand， and in the silence I heard an engine howl，

    and through the night that darkened behind the window， I saw

    light bolt forward， the tail of a comet smudge black winter sky.