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On Transcendent Poetry
Contra Wallace Stevens
That which is modern can only decay
Locked within the prison of transience
Ossification as a death sentence
Always refusing to roll the stone away
That which is modern is immediately lost
But springtime, flowers, pilgrimages, lovers
The darling, dancing hummingbird that hovers
Are ever young, not dead eternal frost
That which is modern is fast-rotting flesh
That which is transcendent is always fresh
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