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The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Pindar, poet of the victories, fitted names And legends into verses for the chorus to sing: Names recalled now only in the poems of Pindar: O nearly unpronounceable immortals, In the dash, Oionos was champion: Oionos, Likmynios's son, who came from Midea. In wrestling, Echemos won—the name Of his home city, Tegea, proclaimed to the crowds. Doryklos of Tiryns won the prize in boxing, And the record for a four-horse team was set By Samos from Mantinea, Halirothios's son. And Pindar, poet of the Olympian and Isthmian And Pythian games, wrote also of the boundless And forgetful savannas of time.What is someone? The chorus sing in a victory ode—What is a nobody? Creatures of a day, they chant in answer,Creatures Of a day

You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place. You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops “retire” When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses—blind with blood. O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud.

What is skin, if not a taut swaddle loosening, body if not a warm swaddle cooling,blood if not thread in a swaddle made of body,horizons if not lines where sky swaddles Earth. See father. Stars, if not swaddled matter emitting light. See spirit. Wind, if it does not trace paths around bodies. See blood. Universe, if not outermost concentric circle. See mother. A kiss, if not mouths pressed into wet twists,taste if not flavor swaddling tongue,father if not the option to swaddle,spirit if not the smallest unit of the swaddled,mother if not hips swaddling womb. See skin. See body. See wind. See universe. See blood. after Nin Andrews

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another; Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine. She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

I made up a story for myself once, That each glove I lost Was sent to my father in prison That’s all it would take for him To chart my growth without pictures Without words or visits, Only colors and design, Texture; it was ok then For skin to chafe and ash, To imagine him Trying on a glove, Stretching it out My open palm closing And disappearing In his fist.

How long can you speak. Without inhaling. How long. Can you inhale without. Bursting apart. History is wagging. Its ass at us. Twirling in its silver. Cape. I want to kiss. Your scalp. I want you to kiss. My friends. Can you see the wet. Azalea quivering. On its vine. Its ripening. Dread. If it never rained again. I would still wear. My coat. Still wrap. My socks in plastic. Doing. One thing is a way. Of not doing everything else. Today I answer only. To my war name. Wise. Salt. I can make. A stone float off into. The sky. I can make. A whole family. Disappear. I know. So many people. Have been awful to you. I’ve given each one. A number. When you’re ready. I will ask you to draw me. Their hands.

you are falling sun shine miracle your lips are wet rain to our hearts floods in every opening on the stoop your skirt rises fingers go up your legs you are falling in the streets the hallways of east harlem the dark hallways of east harlem the dark hallways with mattresses of east harlem you are falling roll with us the avenues you are falling the night queen of the earth you are falling on us with lips & thighs & big round breasts we hold in our hands & hear your bomb tick your blood get hot come out crack your eggs on stupid american heads queen of the earth push us to the walls fall on us kill us with your love & tongue harlem queen fine mama sprinkle us with it there are no bargains pure product you are falling bloom bloom you got all sing dark & you shine grown fat for love in the dark you are like a volcano with a sea of heat explode you are falling explode

A stabbing in miniature, it is, a tiny crime, my own blood parceled drop by drop and set on the flickering tongue of this machine. It is the spout-punching of trees for syrup new and smooth and sweeter than nature ever intended. It is Sleeping Beauty's curse and fascination. It is the dipstick measuring of oil from the Buick's throat, the necessary maintenance. It is every vampire movie ever made. Hand, my martyr without lips, my quiet cow. I'll milk your fingertips for all they're worth. For what they're worth. Something like a harvest, it is, a tiny crime.

loop Down the road Up the hill Into the house Over the wall Under the bed After the fact By the way Out of the woods Behind the times In front of the door Between the lines Along the path echo In the way it was in the street it was in the back it was in the house it was in the room it was in the dark it was fat fate Be at That this Come as If when Stay or Soon then Ever happen It will look Particular pleasures weather measures or Dimestore delights faced with such sights. here Outstretched innocence Implacable distance Lend me a hand See if it reaches time Of right Of wrong Of up Of down Of who Of how Of when Of one Of then Of if Of in Of out Of feel Of friend Of it Of now moral Now the inevitable As in tales of woe The inexorable toll It takes, it takes. eat Head on backwards Face front neck’s Pivot bunched flesh Drops jowled brunch. toffee Little bit patted pulled Stretched set let cool. case Whenas To for If where From in Past place Stated want Gain granted Planned or have a heart Have heart Find head Feel pattern Be wed Smell water See sand Oh boy Ain’t life grand oh oh Now and then Here and there Everywhere On and on winter Season’s upon us Weather alarms us Snow riot peace Leaves struck fist. duty Let little Linda allow litigation Foster faith’s fantasy famously And answer all apt allegations Handmake Harold’s homework handsomely gotcha Passion’s particulars Steamy hands Unwashed warmth One night stands west acton summer Cat’s rats, Mother’s brother Vacation’s patience, loud clouds Fields far, seize trees School’s rules, friends tend Lawn’s form, barn’s beams Hay’s daze, swallows follow Sun’s sunk, moon mends Echo’s ending, begin again far “Far be it from Harry to alter the sense of drama inherent in the almighty tuxedo ...” “Far be it from Harry” Sit next to Mary, See how the Other Follows your Mother pat’s Pat’s place Pattern’s face Aberrant fact Changes that four’s Four’s forms Back and forth Feel way Hindside Paper route Final chute sentences Indefatigably alert when hit still hurt. Whenever he significantly alters he falters. Wondrous weather murmured mother. Unforgettable twist in all such synthesis. Impeccably particular you always were. Laboriously enfeebled he still loved people. words Driving to the expected Place in mind in Place of mind in Driving to the expected here You have to reach Out more it’s Farther away from You it’s here data Exoneration’s face Echoed distaste Privileged repetition Makeshift’s decision— • Now and then Behind time’s Emptied scene and Memory’s mistakes— • You are here And there too Being but one Of you— scatter All that’s left of coherence. echo again Statement keep talking Train round bend over river into distance door Everything’s before you were here. summer ’38 Nubble’s Light a sort of bump I thought— a round insistent small place not like this— it was a bluff, tip on the edge of the sea. air Lift up so you’re Floating out Of your skin at The edge but Mostly up seeming Free of the ground. echoes Think of the Dance you could do One legged man Two legged woman. there Hard to be unaddressed— Empty to reflection— Take the road east— Be where it is. echoes Sunrise always first— That light—is it Round the earth—what Simple mindedness. star Where It is There You are • Out there In here Now it is Was also • Up where It will be And down Again • No one Point To it Ever