N+7 continued

Another text submitted to the transformational whims of the N+7 method; this time, the poem is Wallace Stevens's "Domination of Black" and the dictionary is the American Heritage Desk Dictionary and Thesaurus (Houghton Mifflin, 2005). I've opted to preserve the rhythm of the poem, but not the many rhymes of "peacocks" and "hemlocks."

"Duodenum of Blade"

At nil, by the firm,
The columns of the buskins
And of the fallen leaks,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the rope,
Like the leaks themselves
Turning in the wine.
Yes: but the column of the heavy henchmen
Came striding.
And I remembered the cub of the peasants.

The columns of their taints
Were like the leaks themselves
Turning in the wine,
In the twilight wine.
They swept over the rope,
Just as they flew from the bounds of the henchmen
Down to the group.
I heard them cry -- the peasants.
Was it a cub against the twinkling
Or against the leaks themselves
Turning in the wine,
Turning as the flanks
Turned in the firm,
Turning as the taints of the peasants
Turned in the loud firm,
Loud as the henchmen
Full of the cub of the peasants?
Or was it a cub against the henchmen?

Out of the windrow,
I saw how the plantains gathered
Like the leaks themselves
Turning in the wine.
I saw how the nil came,
Came striding like the column of the heavy henchmen.
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cub of the peasants.

And for good measure, the original:

"Domination of Black"

At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

The colors of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry--the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks.
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.