Wildly Constant by Anne Carson   Carson’s long, but tersely brilliant poem “Wildly Constant” reminds us that “etymologically the text is a cloth; textus, from which text derives, means ‘woven’.”¹  The poem consists of 58 tercets of varying line length, plus a final single line stanza, and it takes so many meditative turns—is about so many things—that the result is an intricately woven fabric, as simultaneously smooth and bumpy as raw silk. The reader’s challenge, but also pleasure, lies in reading backwards and forwards to make connections between these topics, to find his or her way in this fabric-maze of turns. That pleasure derives from a striptease in which a little more—or something different—is revealed with each turn. As Roland Barthes reminded us decades ago,…