This, the third poem in the current series, follows the guidelines laid down in the initial Thomas Hardy's poem from beyond the grave post which is to be found 2 posts below this one.
Wallace Stevens' poem from beyond the grave
But salvation here? What about the rattle of sticks
Rising upon the doctors in their beds
And of him that sees, beyond the astronomers
In a moving contour, a change not quite completed?
Look round, brown moon, brown bird, as you rise to fly
Without understanding, out of the wall
Or a lustered nothingness, Effendi, he
Bears us toward time, on its
Tinsel in February, tinsel in August
The months of understanding. The pediment
Begins again and ends again -
The gardener's cat is dead, the gardener gone.