I've always wanted to ask Merwin if, on that long flight
from Gotham to Maui, an overhead compartment opened suddenly, explaining
his stars, his shortness of breath. I've often wondered if I stood stock still
on one side of a river's blue confusion, Oliver would mistake me for a hunter
in the red leaves. I never worry about Ashbery - everyone gets into one
of his poems, eventually. In my dreams, I sell underscores to Jorie. In my dream's
dreams, I get back to tactiles, hunching on one of Heaney's square clots
with a livery spade and retire to a Nameless State where cracked walls
are plastered over with lottery results that Simic reads in monotone, only to be rescued
by a troika of financiers - Stevens with his head between his knees, Eliot apologizing
for the U-boats at the docks where Levine slaps Ammons and a random longshoreman.
We're all on a doomed liner and Plath hangs with Sexton, delaying their demise
because a draped flag clashes with evening wear, not to mention Stallings
on board to compare their last splash to the ringing of Charybdis. Merrill calls
last round and pays the tab from a black swan of a purse. Outside, an unknown poet leans
on the railing and is struck by an idea involving a paradelle and a swim to Manhattan.