[from Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction, by Wallace Stevens:]
Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night,
How is it I find you in difference, see you there
In a moving contour, a change not quite completed?
You are familiar yet an aberration.
Civil, madam, I am but underneath
A tree, this unprovoked sensation requires
That I should name you flatly, waste no words.
Check your evasions, hold you to yourself.
Even so when I think of you as strong or tired,
Bent over work, anxious, content, alone,
You remain the more than natural figure. You
Become the soft-footed phantom, the irrational
Distortion, however fragrant, however dear.
That’s it: the more than rational distortion,
The fiction that results from feeling. Yes, that.
They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne.
We shall return at twilight from the lecture,
Pleased that the irrational is rational,
Until flicked by feeling, in a gildered street,
I call you by name, my green, my fluent mundo.
You will have stopped revolving except in crystal.
[All rights reserved by the author's estate - Please do not copy]