On The Jar that Wallace Stevens Stole from English Shores

a bucket handle snapped in Berkhamsted
near the place where conquerors were crowned
and like a crown the severed bucket rolled in arcs upon that slovenly scarp
disturbing man and oak and nettle raven lark
until it rested on a point that arc

the gardens of the earth they took its shape
the trefoil and plantain dive beneath its axis
but as the years roll by the secrets of its perfect shape
a riddle solved inside a cave of air it raises
a quietude of robins sang its praises

though crude distilled descendants some live on
now the bucket gone also all the things that took its shape
perfection rolled away as fake but not temporal
to take a new dominion mong the very earth and air from which we came
to understand is all to understand the dead yet never dead
like all else in Berkhamsted