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  • Wallace Stevens in the Bronx
  • Diana Ben-Merre

on Sundays I take walkshere and there

He is passing on the high ground looking west over the river (the bridge still someone’s dream) stopping, listening, at the convent wall where, just as they’re supposed to, nightingales sing. (The stones crumble later; city houses block the view.) He walks heavily, beating out the time as river light shadows his steps, up the avenue, turning at the Post Road and thinking how the stars could have wakened us early this morning if they weren’t so glittered over by the sun.

If he looked back, and of course he never did, that floating stuff they named Mnemosyne would be masked by what this day could only be called azure, an azure firmament, as she and her greedy daughters follow the path he opens across Mosholu and the apple trees that frame the Gun Hill, to the new villas of New Rochelle, where roosters peck in the courtyards and even the stones wait for a voice. [End Page 267]

Diana Ben-Merre
Bronx, New York
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