48, by A.R. Ammons

missed by every movement, exile of

every glare-ridden trend, never the

tissue of any issue, I traipse to the

bookstore to see if I’ve arrived in

any index, not, notice, as a relevant

subject, but as a slur, since one’s

hunger gets even down to that: no,

no: in Nature Writing, nothing:

nothing in poetics: unbeat: well,

I’ve proved Emerson unimaginably

wrong: one can live in one’s time

and lucky for it, with no involvement

in its politics: I love the chicanery,

fraudulence, expedience, greed of

the political (read, human) world--

those allow, those qualities, for so

much invention, unprescribed variety

but my time line, such as it is,

shears the peaks off politicos’

peaks: I’m not in Nature Writing

because I’ve been too deep in nature

to notice: nobody noticed: oh, well,

it was enough to see: except on a

cold, windy, clear Sunday afternoon

with not a damn thing doing: then

one’s heart longs to be noticeably

dismissed, at least: in the still

pond of nothingness, rock the boat

or there won’t be any waves: someday

I’m going to write on how Stevens

makes his be buzz: I am: scram:

From “Glare” by A.R. Ammons. (W.W. Norton: 294 pp., $25) Copyright 1997 Reprinted by permission.