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.
— Wallace Stevens