Pastiche

You’re not born the same as you'll be when you die.

silent

            listen

enlist

            tinsel

inlets 

“Trace the gold sun about the whitened sky

without evasion by a single metaphor.

Look at it in its essential barrenness

and say this, this is the center that I seek.”

—Stevens 

Crush me beneath a night’s voices—

hushes, branches that river the moon,

traffic’s jawing and tripping hazards,

the window waft of a far off tune,

folded wings, dark and white,

wind rustling through wintered trash,

blue-tinted thoughts like forming frost,

and heater-glow gripping distant ash.