A Love Poem Project part 6

The lovers of the east-side return
But this time from outer space.
It is the same noise, the same needs,
But it is not Spring.

You said the stars fall in the morning.
The stars fall deep in darkness
On life where it sleeps and where the lovers
Keep hanging their bras on door hinges....

Say this to Papa, tell the doorbell
That to breach is to slowly intrude.
Say that the poets' moon comes up
grey, clean, and lousy  with music.

Say that in the clean urban streets
The plumes of blue and green grow.  The lovers
Hang on each other as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.

Memorandum by Wallace Stevens from Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose

The katy-dids at Ephrata return
But this time at another place.
It is the same sound, the same season,
But it is not Ephrata.

You said the dew falls in the blood.
The dew falls deep in mind
On life itself and there the katy-dids
Keep whanging their brass wings....

Say this to Pravda, tell the damned rag
That the peaches are slowly ripening.
Say that the American moon comes up
Cleansed clean of lousy Byzantium.

Say that in the clear Atlantic night
The plums are blue on the trees.  The katy-dids
Bang cymbals as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.