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Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen'd from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken'd in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world's great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, And see'st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same.

The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

There goes the aluminum, the antimony, the arsenic the barium, the cadmium, the cesium, the gadolinium the lead the mercury the nickel, the thalium, and the tin. There goes that job spraying lawns with chemicals, driving the Merc three-quarter ton with a tank on the back and no brakes through West Vancouver, bouncing the wheels against the curb to stop and on the steep majesterial streets that afford such views that they could hire two talentless dickbrains to weed and feed front and back and back again in two weeks. That was a heavy metal job that probably killed a lot of salmon too. There goes the shotgun pellets from the pheasants we shot out in Abbotsford and Langley plucked and hung in the concrete basement in New Westminster fresh with the stink of pheasant guts. Oily, delicious pheasants roasted always with a little buckshot after a day off. There goes those summers painting houses with my brother wire-brushing off the old paint, breathing it in on the wooden ladders white guys working on a tan and saving up for the Peugot ten speed. There goes the seventies out from my body. Led Zep Humble Pie Burning Spear, and Marley too, adidas, big E Levis from Lee's Men's Wear on Sixth Street there goes that brown house paint, broken down and pissed out. There goes those years beachcombing along the Fraser from New West to Lulu Island pulling out cedar blocks that had floated free from the shake factory booms. Pulling the blocks out of that industrial muck grey green and foamy down near Scott Paper, the mill that Larry worked in until it moved production south. Then stacking and drying the blocks to split them into shakes with a birchwood hammer and an adze. There goes that industrial mix from the Fraser from the riverbank from the bars by the river. There goes sucking on a hose to get some gas into that golden sixty-six Valiant convertible with the leaky roof and the 273 and putting it right into the carb to sputter the piece of shit to life Again. Still, pretty great to have a convertible with a radio (turn the radio on roadrunner roadrunner!) and a five-gallon gas can and a piece of garden hose and a mouthful of Regular, a mouthful of Regular Leaded from the Chevron in the strip mall across Tenth Ave. There goes working on a printing press under the sidewalk of the storefront at Cambie and Hastings that was later the Caribbean place and is now going to be gentrified. There goes that time. There goes all the shitty renos on Broadway, on Hastings, on Commercial Drive, there goes the dust from that wall Mike took down with a chain saw when Talonbooks was above the foundry and there goes the foundry dust and the sweep of chemicals that would take your head off like six beers later at the Waldorf. There goes the mystery unmarked jars of cleaners and solvents and grease that Larry nicked from the mill and we used on the cars and bikes and on our hands. There goes that job at the self-serve Shell with a car wash across from the college when it was in temporary trailers just to show that education for the masses was taken seriously. And there goes, hopefully, the dust and everything from that week in September when what was stored in the three buildings of the World Trade Centre was pulverized and burnt Into the air and Nancy and I stayed in the apartment with t-shirts tied over our mouth and nose and didn't go out until we went to Milano's where the Fireman drank for free with the IRA guys leaning at the bar. There goes that time. There goes the Aluminum, the antimony, the arsenic the barium, the cadmium, the cesium, the gadolinium the lead the mercury the nickel, the thalium, and the tin. Broken down pissed out. There goes those jobs, those times there goes those relations of inside and outside, of work and nerves and fat and soft tissue and synapses. There goes that set of relations inside and outside. There goes that body that use and surplus

You can’t imagine what it’s like here. In her past life, she was a clandestine operator in ancient Egypt. In a past life she had her heart ripped out, ritual sacrifice. We all know what that means, right, to have your heart ripped out. Torn from the body, one’s “own” body, alive and torn. The unspeaking speaker. The man coughs. Orientation. Two bells, a motorcar on the street, on-lookers. H22-3416. Men, maybe four, inside. Vast numbers of people, faces turned to the east. Four nurses holding four swaddled babes, four bottles. Six men walking forward on a country road all wearing suits, coats, vests and ties. Upon his shoulders, one of the men carries a man with no legs. The man with no legs is wearing a bathrobe. In a landscape a train passes from top right to bottom left. People are packed inside as well as on the roof and holding on at the sides. One man, naked, his back turned to the window, light on inside. A bird in a cage hung on a hook at the top left-hand corner of the window. A man in profile to the left, eyes closed mouth open wide, singing. Or thought he was singing. He did. Or we did. The back of a chair and three tall mirrors. At their focal point a woman stands, arms akimbo. She’s wearing evening dress black high heels, long white gown, long black gloves, necklace, earrings. Outside the bakery, a horse-drawn hearse approaches. A woman in an apron tests green grapes eating them before placing bunches in a wooden crate. Inside a Quonset hut, there’s a long table with men sitting in chairs writing or paying attention to one man standing at the table, hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. Shirtless men seated on the floor, some on towels or blankets, are doing exercises. Friday afternoon, cold grim day. We meet in the museum, at a picture called “Birmingham.” Sign on exterior wall saying “WELCOME.”

I had eight birds hatcht in one nest, Four Cocks were there, and Hens the rest. I nurst them up with pain and care, No cost nor labour did I spare Till at the last they felt their wing, Mounted the Trees and learned to sing. Chief of the Brood then took his flight To Regions far and left me quite. My mournful chirps I after send Till he return, or I do end. Leave not thy nest, thy Dame and Sire, Fly back and sing amidst this Quire. My second bird did take her flight And with her mate flew out of sight. Southward they both their course did bend, And Seasons twain they there did spend, Till after blown by Southern gales They Norward steer’d with filled sails. A prettier bird was no where seen, Along the Beach, among the treen. I have a third of colour white On whom I plac’d no small delight, Coupled with mate loving and true, Hath also bid her Dame adieu. And where Aurora first appears, She now hath percht to spend her years. One to the Academy flew To chat among that learned crew. Ambition moves still in his breast That he might chant above the rest, Striving for more than to do well, That nightingales he might excell. My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone, Is ‘mongst the shrubs and bushes flown And as his wings increase in strength On higher boughs he’ll perch at length. My other three still with me nest Until they’re grown, then as the rest, Or here or there, they’ll take their flight, As is ordain’d, so shall they light. If birds could weep, then would my tears Let others know what are my fears Lest this my brood some harm should catch And be surpris’d for want of watch Whilst pecking corn and void of care They fall un’wares in Fowler’s snare; Or whilst on trees they sit and sing Some untoward boy at them do fling, Or whilst allur’d with bell and glass The net be spread and caught, alas; Or lest by Lime-twigs they be foil’d; Or by some greedy hawks be spoil’d. O would, my young, ye saw my breast And knew what thoughts there sadly rest. Great was my pain when I you bred, Great was my care when I you fed. Long did I keep you soft and warm And with my wings kept off all harm. My cares are more, and fears, than ever, My throbs such now as ‘fore were never. Alas, my birds, you wisdom want Of perils you are ignorant. Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight, Sore accidents on you may light. O to your safety have an eye, So happy may you live and die. Mean while, my days in tunes I’ll spend Till my weak lays with me shall end. In shady woods I’ll sit and sing And things that past, to mind I’ll bring. Once young and pleasant, as are you, But former toys (no joys) adieu! My age I will not once lament But sing, my time so near is spent, And from the top bough take my flight Into a country beyond sight Where old ones instantly grow young And there with seraphims set song. No seasons cold, nor storms they see But spring lasts to eternity. When each of you shall in your nest Among your young ones take your rest, In chirping languages oft them tell You had a Dame that lov’d you well, That did what could be done for young And nurst you up till you were strong And ‘fore she once would let you fly She shew'd you joy and misery, Taught what was good, and what was ill, What would save life, and what would kill. Thus gone, amongst you I may live, And dead, yet speak and counsel give. Farewell, my birds, farewell, adieu, I happy am, if well with you.

“Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.” — Ps. ci. Wintertime nighs; But my bereavement-pain It cannot bring again: Twice no one dies. Flower-petals flee; But, since it once hath been, No more that severing scene Can harrow me. Birds faint in dread: I shall not lose old strength In the lone frost's black length: Strength long since fled! Leaves freeze to dun; But friends can not turn cold This season as of old For him with none. Tempests may scath; But love can not make smart Again this year his heart Who no heart hath. Black is night's cope; But death will not appal One who, past doubtings all, Waits in unhope.

for Tim It was in August, such a lovely summer, that I began the massacring. The flower killing. Feeding the sunflowers to the industrial dough mixer. Soon there was enough yellow petal pulp for twelve loaves. For twelve times ten loaves. For twelve hundred loaves. One of the food critics in town came around to inquire about my baking system. . . . I glanced at the machete, propped next to the ovens. Toward October (and what auburn weather!), I still felt it, the substance of the soul, the libidinal terrible whatever. I sat out back with the two countergirls, Haley and Shayla. There was one cigarette, and we were sharing. Mourning is the horizon of all desire, we were commiserating. But Haley and Shayla, they’re— They sell Kaiser rolls and sliced Sicilian and then they leave and put on a fancy tanktop and go out for the evening. They go even though— The little white clematis cling to the fences. (At dawn the buds were dying as a sweet white bread was rising.) November How beautiful were the yellow mums in the thin wintry sun! The bread they made had the hue of golden potatoes. December Specks of red in lit windows: amaryllis that I stole and slaughtered and sold inside a pain de mie roll. I love how in the cold, my breath flowers before me. January, February I hacked through the ice to get at flower fetuses. The breads were very seedy. Spring It was really beginning. Baguettes made entirely of white peonies. Brioche from the blood of purple lilacs. Long lines outside the bakery’s door . . . What is the secret ingredient? I confessed:Flower. Flowers! Please, put me away. I am desperate. Summer I could not go through another. The woodbine had barely begun and already the mornings were full of the scent of them. Not one honeysuckle would go unsucked—unless— I closed the doors (every season is too full of longing!) and rechristened myself Flora. I drank a vat of rose water and put both my wrists through the slicer. And then I began to bleed—a white powder. Flour. And then you came in. I would have known you even if you were not wearing in your  buttonhole a carnation. The bakery is closed, I said tersely. I was bleeding profusely. I loved you even before you said Nothing breaks more slowly, more silently, than bread. With my blood pouring out as a fine, dry flour let me confess before I expire. There on the counter, in that vase fresh and pink is the corsage I was keeping for our dance.

My husband's out-of-town so I set Our house on fire. Champagne And eggs, asparagus for breakfast. Water for lunch. I eat dinner early In the late afternoon while the wind Disorganizes leaves, leaving me To clean them up. I think that the Imagination's guided by logic— A hand that's used to translating Images of rain to snow. Error-filled, The night destroys the details of Poems—the pearls worn by Beethoven In secret, the rocks H.D. mistook For seaweed as she walked In exaltation toward the beach. Is it Possible to sing the imagination Into being? And is it possible for us To valorize autumn by cloaking in Difficult language the paths of stars? Geraniums, they make entr'actes Out of air as I walk past them. Always these goddamn leaves And acorns shat on our house by The goddamn oak. One of us will fail The other, will plagiarize language From the other, that's certain. Acorns are beautiful only to those Who've never had to clean them up.

for Abbe, Sally, and Joseph I Amidah Hear my personal prayer,the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart