Wallace Stevens

The memory and the fact are One in creation, say.

The hypothetical poem of God or love must pass away.

It is a question of myth, Of shadows in a cave.

There is no need for choice — What is given is a texture

That I am woven into, Weave with, inextricably.

Each tribal dance comes Clear and sheds meaning as

So much well-used skin. I am a fur-trader, a cheat,

Picking through the ranks, Following vague orders.