These trees and their argentines, their dark-spiced
branches,
Grow out of the spirit or they are fantastic dust.
The bud of the apple is desire, the down-falling gold,
The catbird's gobble in the morning half-awake-
These are real only if I make them so. Whistle
For me, grow green for me and, as you whistle and grow
green,
Intangible arrows quiver and stick in the skin
And I taste at the root of the tongue the unreal of what
is real.
W. Stevens
.
