by Wallace Stevens

4.

She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
before they fly, test the reality
of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
but when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
nor any old chimera of the grave,
either the golden underground, nor isle
melodious, where spirits gat them home,
nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
as April's green endures; or will endure
like her remembrance of awakened birds,
or her desire for June and evening, tipped
by the consummation of the swallow's wings.



autumn in los angeles, and i am no longer a student. i am not much of anything, really, just a walking collection of searches and scraps of writing. i need a job and some health insurance, but it is hard to care when i can keep busy with the leaves, the poems, and the frisbees thrown in the dusk. then, when i try to sleep, the concerns of my world rise up and clamour in my ears. somehow, balance will be reached. the triplets of belleville are playing, and there are sweet tomatoes and ripe oranges to buy. life must continue in beauty as it has.