Hartford Was Seen under a Black Street Lamp, and: Stevens Walked a Yard Goat Back to the Woods, and: How Stevens Met Crane on a Covered Bridge
In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Hartford Was Seen under a Black Street Lamp, and: Stevens Walked a Yard Goat Back to the Woods, and: How Stevens Met Crane on a Covered Bridge

Hartford Was Seen under a Black Street Lamp

For Wallace Stevens

Hartford was seen under a black street lamp,office built above its buried river,barbed wire, jack hammer, honeysuckle blue.

The alchemist of imaginationstood watch on his Westerly balcony.Hartford was seen under a black street lamp,

thin wire, cityscape, Thermofax blue,his poems typed on the sun’s Coronaslide ruler, actuary, metaphor.

Hartford was seen under a black street lampa parasol at the rose garden pond,smokestack, the town clock burning, injury,

compensation for the factory handthat shaped ball bearings into falling stars,gold coins, buried river, claiming the dead.

Life-lines, his palm at the end of the mind,brought down scalding rain over the city.Hartford was seen under a black street lamp,barbed wire, jack hammer, honeysuckle blue. [End Page 254]

Stevens Walked a Yard Goat Back to the Woods

The yard goat slept under a purple lightmilked dry by a lad in centerfield.The halo glowed above his knotted head.

It was the small city minor league teamoutside a river of colliding highways,a bad luck goat sold to the umpire

its split hooves polished like the devil’s own.It crossed traffic to the North End riotand made a short stop at the creamery.

The sun turned purple over the rail yard,retired umpire and crippled goat,sandlot, last inning, home run.

The laughing school boy who waved a toy gunwas shot twice between his corner-plate eyes.We lowered his head on a twin brass bed.

We pointed a purple skylight overshopping cart poor moved into a tunnel,believers wedded to their home town field,score tied at eleven, ball reached heaven. [End Page 255]

How Stevens Met Crane on a Covered Bridge

Stevens threw a gourd out of a window,set the grandfather clock and music box,life drawn to the camera obscura.

He heard a wind chime and lifted his pen,stared into fire for the rabid eye.He threw a love poem into the fire,

hand-written, his pen dipped in vermentino,wine poured with laughter into sweet oak casks,by sleight of hand, parting ways, disfigured.

The winter becoming winter too soonsnapped flowering vines into the dry field.The children played a night gourd tambourine.

Hart Crane   how long had you stood on the bridge?The wedding vow was signed on altarstone.Stevens   was your frayed soul hidden in metaphor?

Garlands of grief sank to the ocean floorand poisoned the teapot and wishing well.The drought and fire was unexpectedhow love obscured and love revealed the heart. [End Page 256]

Charles Fort
New Britain, Connecticut
...