Voice Mail for Wallace Stevens
Wallace—(did they really call you Wallace?)
I’d like a word with you, now that you’ve got
your lock on immortality: you wrote
in euphonies, making the angels jealous,
then went ahead and dared the rest of us
to deconstruct the textual implications.
Well—about a million dissertations
later—there's still no consensus, Wallace.
Just incessant inharmoniousness
along with thirteen thousand ways of looking
at a bird, a nightgown, or the plucking
of a strange guitar. In fact, I guess
we'll never chase your tigers very far,
nor trap your perfect genius in a jar.