William Carlos Williams they say
Hated the iamb
Opting instead for the plodding spondee
Or lines so short
As to defy the measure of a foot

Prosey rhythms tend in fact
Toward blank verse
Provided that lines break
So as to begin low and end high
As had done Stevens and Frost

And images and sounds never really
Coincide do they
One or the other will always prevail
As Chieftain Azcan of Iffucan attests
Along away aloft astride his red wheelbarrow

Hate is far too strong a word
And did he make a statement
Or is history judging from the squeaks
Of analytical philology
The sunset murmurs of russet March

Are we to discern biographical data
His foibles
His infidelities
His physician’s panoply
Anapestic protective device

It must be a science
Or a quixotic journey with Stevens
Across a world of words to the end
But lo the refrigerated plums
They too are good

And the death-deadly flowers
Daffodils in rugged March
Litmus hydrangea
Blooming crimson sunset
Below the horizon

The boatmen of the dead
All the ancients
Bearing their dead weight
Everything new is old again
An age of hurtful blossoming

Dream yet awhile beloved
While I toil as I must in the scriptorium
Or rather indulge that other fantasy
My obscure emulations
For you whom I love beyond all measure