Bullied by Pound, ran “Prufrock” in the back
Of a dull summer number-shot heard round
The world. Rattling across Siberia
By railcar over tundra, stony ground
Where stunted fir trees struggled to breathe free
Like poets in America, she had found
Her vision, stuck out chin. By God, she’d pack
Not pork but poetry.
Vestal, bluestockinged warrior-what long nights
She spent uprooting tick-tock lyricists,
Sowing and weeding fields of neophytes.
Who could have thought the Mountain of the Mists
Would host her grave when, frail, on Andes heights,
She’d close eyes that had blazed like amethysts?
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