In Notes Toward a Supreme

Fiction, Stevens gives us

"the imagination's Latin."

But what have I to offer ---

gibberish of midnight oil,

bleak patois of mercredi?

*

Reading the ghazals

of Shahid Ali:

glittering scripture,

cool moonglow.

*

Demoiselle de Brooklyn,

your footsteps are music.

*

My coffee-cup,

sculpted from moonrock.

Into its mouth-gape

I pour several ounces

of black liquid sky.

*

What memoranda

are you dictating,

dripping faucet?