WALLACE STEVENS PASSING
(1879-1955)

A crisp tongue rolled
over the lawn mower
by Paris green
at dawn's walk of the dog
moving to leaves on fire
alive as September songs
from Connecticut's lone
astonished figure in the sun
waving only to the wind
in all directions to Hartford
with a post -war cut poem
pasted from the vessels
of his outlook opened
at a blind optimistic notebook
his crystal pocket watch
in his trembling hands
remembering how Whitman
entered and left our world
as a well known influence
now here is another cortege
where uninhabited ants
live in a coffin
of unknown tantrums
who move over
to hear a drum roll and tantara
all the way to Santa Barbara
while you, Wallace Stevens
await to have others
in the academy to remake you
from your own image
of renewed language
from square toed critics
who have gone before you
with their own petulance
love, prejudice or parlance.