A funny thing happened on the way to Wallace Stevens' later poetry

[TranquillityBase]

Alchemy gets wet and dries into whatever the health of the moment is.

Ezra Pound, not despite but longdick because, remains dry.

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He's dry.
And perhaps that's his style.
Dry.

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Not intellectual or May feather al.

dry.

Not dead and decomposing.

Dry and dry.

Dry, like

dry.

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His face is dry. His eye is dry. When he cries, it's dry.

I'm alive, he;s, I mean, he's dry.

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Ezra Pound is that black bird. Even a raven is wet, compared to Ezra Pound who's dry.

We need dryness,

the maker of the moist.

Dry. Alive. Dead. Poetry dry.

At first I thought you were bating me, as in master, as in Pound-baiting, but maybe not, maybe you’re making sense.  God help me.