July Mountain
We live in a constellation
Of patches and of pitches,
Not in a single world,
In things said well in music,
On the piano and in speech,
As in a page of poetry—
Thinkers without final thoughts
In an always incipient cosmos.
The way, when we climb a mountain,
Vermont throws itself together.
— Wallace Stevens, from
Opus Posthumous (1957)
Or Pennsylvania:
