He prodded the planet for fun and profit, Rattled fusty vines for mustiest grapes To break like bubbles on his rouge tongue, Purplest Bacchus of the Garden State. The straw he sipped at dripped divinest dews. Around him argent clouds convened, Attending wetly at the cordial where he nipped, Cottony pulps of his wine-violet ideas. A maker of the weather, he prepared Hurricanos in his heart, tornadoes torqued From regretful tears, while he adroitly ducked Beneath streaked skies split with epic lightning His own imagination dreamed and drew down. Of creation and of creation's pang He was the singer, and of that terror sang. This he did swinging amid his champagne dregs, And from those dregs distilled the magic beans-- Grew tall, until all the rolling world below Was his red rubber ball, gripped and peeled. The sun between his rosy forefinger and sore thumb He spun, and smiled as it twirled. Here leaned a mountain, not a man. Great birds wheeled beneath his brambled brows. Waterfalls leapt from his chin in frisking drool. To sense a transparence within the clouds Like thunder swallowed, his big teeth illumined-- That was what he practiced; his feet Fell away below to forest elf-boots, olive moccasins Softly clomping crimps of the shell-pink Palisades. Beyond the boisterous baying of day, he made, Mad with laughter, the very game he played: "Imagine reality," he cried to the crisp Atlantic Sweeping to his side, the she-sea upswelling frothily To fetch 'tween trident teeth the fatal bone, the poem, Her impassive master had tossed to the Azores. Promethean lips imparted surpassing pearls In hiccups, bubbing toward the clouds they blew In monotonic dream-bubbles of cartoons; His electric hair was flying fire, unreeling auroras From here to Delaware. The poet is his world: The vatic voice, his song assigned to wood or cliff Indifferently, whole planets popped like gumdrops Into his manic maw and ruminated raw Like so much milky cud.