Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction Part VIII - Wallace Stevens

[Larry Robinson]

Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction 
VIII



What am I to believe? If the angel in his cloud, 
Serenely gazing at the violet abyss, 
Plucks on his strings to pluck abysmal glory,  

Leaps downward through evening’s revelations, and 
On his spredden wings, needs nothing but deep space, 
Forgets the gold centre, the golden destiny,  

Grows warm in the motionless motion of his flight, 
Am I that imagine this angel less satisfied? 
Are the wings his, the lapis-haunted air? 

Is it he or is it I that experience this? 
Is it I then that keep saying there is an hour 
Filled with expressible bliss, in which I have  

No need, am happy, forget need’s golden hand, 
Am satisfied without solacing majesty, 
And if there is an hour there is a day,  

There is a month, a year, there is a time 
In which majesty is a mirror of the self: 
I have not but I am and as I am, I am.  

These external regions, what do we fill them with 
Except reflections, the escapades of death, 
Cinderella fulfilling herself beneath the roof?
	
	- Wallace Stevens
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