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I don’t know somehow it seems sufficient to see and hear whatever coming and going is, losing the self to the victory of stones and trees, of bending sandpit lakes, crescent round groves of dwarf pine: for it is not so much to know the self as to know it as it is known by galaxy and cedar cone, as if birth had never found it and death could never end it: the swamp’s slow water comes down Gravelly Run fanning the long stone-held algal hair and narrowing roils between the shoulders of the highway bridge: holly grows on the banks in the woods there, and the cedars’ gothic-clustered spires could make green religion in winter bones: so I look and reflect, but the air’s glass jail seals each thing in its entity: no use to make any philosophies here: I see no god in the holly, hear no song from the snowbroken weeds: Hegel is not the winter yellow in the pines: the sunlight has never heard of trees: surrendered self among unwelcoming forms: stranger, hoist your burdens, get on down the road.

So here are the strange feelings that flicker in you or anchor like weights in your eyes. Turn back and you might undo them, the way trees seem to float free of themselves as they root. A swan can hold itself on the gray ice water and not waver, an open note upon which minor chords blur and rest. But it was born dark. The shore of that lake is littered with glass. How you came to be who you are was all unwinding, aimless on a bike, off to retrieve a parcel that could only be a gift, and felt, as a child, the sea weave around your feet, white light rushing in with the surf. What lived there? —Joy, dispatched from nowhere, and no need to think about your purpose, and no fear that the sun gliding down might burn the earth it feeds. Black habitat of now in which decimation looks tender. Sometimes the call of a bird is so clear it bruises my hands. At night, behind glass, light empties out then fills a room and the people in it, hovering around a fire, gorgeous shapes of wind leaning close to each other in laughter. From this distance, they are a grace, an ache. The kingdom inside.

Good gracious.You again. And it is always you asking to borrow cigarettes and time. We are exhaling on the curb. Mouths heating with a debate. Yellow town lights bleed desperate wings against our faces. Testimonies of a good man tonight. The “Jesus Camp” story, stoicism and smoke smiles.My mother shot a man. The ember pinches your fingertips with a desperate kiss.Does that make her a bad woman? We all die. Does it matter?

Man, looking into the sea— taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself— it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing but you cannot stand in the middle of this: the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave. The firs stand in a procession—each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top— reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look. There are others besides you who have worn that look— whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them for their bones have not lasted; men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave, and row quickly away—the blades of the oars moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death. The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed; the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore— the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink— in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

The overweight, overnight parts that came to me in a dream. Their clothes no longer fit, it was this that brought them to me crying, their faces twitching. That had to end. No, they said, it didn’t. So I rolled over to ghosts that couldn’t dent a pillow. The clock shed. Night pulled its burdens into harbor and I woke, glad for the day, its telltale light, its flying minute, that genie work, and the everlasting perturbations of my people, their glories, their heavy last words, and for these, I rose.

Mildest of all the powers of earth: no lightnings For her—maniacal in the clouds. No need for Signs with their skull and crossbones, chain-link gates: Danger! Keep Out! High Gravity! she’s friendlier. Won’t nurse—unlike the magnetic powers—repugnance; Would reconcile, draw close: her passion’s love. No terrors lurking in her depths, like those Bound in that buzzing strongbox of the atom, Terrors that, lossened, turn the hills vesuvian, Trace in cremation where the cities were. No, she’s our quiet mother, sensible. But therefore down-to-earth, not suffering Fools who play fast and loose among the mountains, Who fly in her face, or, drunken, clown on cornices. She taught our ways of walking. Her affection Adjusted the morning grass, the sands of summer Until our soles fit snug in each, walk easy. Holding her hand, we’re safe. Should that hand fail, The atmosphere we breathe would turn hysterical, Hiss with tornadoes, spinning us from earth Into the cold unbreathable desolations. Yet there—in fields of space—is where she shines, Ring-mistress of the circus of the stars, Their prancing carousels, their ferris wheels Lit brilliant in celebration. Thanks to her All’s gala in the galaxy. Down here she Walks us just right, not like the jokey moon Burlesquing our human stride to kangaroo hops; Not like vast planets, whose unbearable mass Would crush us in a bear hug to their surface And into the surface, flattened. No: deals fairly. Makes happy each with each: the willow bend Just so, the acrobat land true, the keystone Nestle in place for bridge and for cathedral. Let us pick up—or mostly—what we need: Rake, bucket, stone to build with, logs for warmth, The fallen fruit, the fallen child . . . ourselves. Instructs us too in honesty: our jointed Limbs move awry and crisscross, gawky, thwart; She’s all directness and makes that a grace, All downright passion for the core of things, For rectitude, the very ground of being: Those eyes are leveled where the heart is set. See, on the tennis court this August day: How, beyond human error, she’s the one Whose will the bright balls cherish and obey —As if in love. She’s tireless in her courtesies To even the klutz (knees, elbows all a-tangle), Allowing his poky serve Euclidean whimsies, The looniest lob its joy: serene parabolas.

After Carrie Mae Weems’s “The Kitchen Table Series” I. THE STRAW Can you throw this away Maybe you should hire more Black staff Where are you

I'm sorry I cannot say I love you when you say you love me. The words, like moist fingers, appear before me full of promise but then run away to a narrow black room that is always dark, where they are silent, elegant, like antique gold, devouring the thing I feel. I want the force of attraction to crush the force of repulsion and my inner and outer worlds to pierce one another, like a horse whipped by a man. I don't want words to sever me from reality. I don't want to need them. I want nothing to reveal feeling but feeling—as in freedom, or the knowledge of peace in a realm beyond, or the sound of water poured in a bowl.

January 2009 1 Snow fallen, another going gone, new come in, open the door: each night I grow young, my friends are well again, my life is all before me, each morning I close a door, another door. 2 Cloud on cloud, gray on gray, snow fallen on snow, tree on tree on unleafed tree— only a river silvered with thin ice and a slash of gold in the late gray sky. 3 Grayed snow slush trudge but snow falling coating filling in for absence Present! child with stringed mittens here to take her place to take over on snow showing up air 4 White sky, whiter sun brushing trees with tints of red, then in the distance streaking mauve gold, filling in between the now filagreed trees, silhouettes against the now red burning sky. 5 As if letting go, dangling down, only down, through a cracked pane, a clear pane, weeping beech branches, roots in air, only the crack slant- ing up or (last night in sleep’s play a long red slide) sloping down 6 down buildings walls houses schools, no one building only bombing, months of little in, now nothing no one out, only down: bodies arms legs in Gaza where the eyeless man tore pillars house himself the people down 7 On this day, this birthday, I wish myself for the first time (who would be a child again?) back at that dining room table with him, his years of little more less back, not as in the note in her birthday book,died 84 yrs of age 8 snow          rain             ice stand         walk            fall little           more           less face            flesh            hand will             is                 was oh               yes              no melt           rain             snow 9 Off the page, sliding or I brush or don’t see you, but without you, so cold, colder than stooped-by-age shoulder, oh flesh, hand, Love, come turn my page. 10 Tempered by age, passion, rage cool, no lost sleep— while in sleep they burn again, your fine hand igniting my thigh, live birds crushed under my feet, then morning grays again, aged back, writing died... of age 11 As body to body fall- ing together we burn again, snow drifts in air, turns, rolls almost horizontal, takes its own slow time off from falling 12 Gun to body, shell to body, bombs to bodies: three, five, now nine hundred bodies, over two hundred children’s bodies, over the border to Gaza to close the already closed border, not to meet, border to border: a border has no body, is only a side. 13 Epiphany missed,not the seen but the coming to see,or star, the minister said, light sensed against the dark, but not even the dark night, or the cold bright, snow roof over the roof below the darkness before— only gray, industrial gunmetal battleship slate gray, and the coming of gray 14 Friend Sleep has betrayed me I’m trapped in a castle with villainess villain two doors open a third slams down before the darkness I’m trapped in a room my friends accuse me I hide my sheets I cannot tell them I’m dying and then awaking I’m hurting (why these dreams?) my betraying self 15 In sleep a holocaust rations trapped in a kitchen ovens coming why not eat them if food is scarce— In Gaza food is scarce, power lost, the UN Compound, a hospital hit today, now over 1000 dead— But see, here,History:the Future: some hope, though still rationed, is Coming Soon. 16 stuck zipper sticky egg wiped off mouth mother’s mouth lined around but pursed now closer why not eat touch again all right merge again then zip: put sleep to sleep 17 Today the train too fast they said too soon they said not yet they said to Washington all right now a black man to the White House on the train. 18 On his way to the Capitol largely built by slaves who baked bricks, cut, laid stone— on his way to stand before the Mall where slaves were held in pens and sold— on his way to a White House partly built by slaves, where another resident, after his Proclamation, wrote: If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong. 19 One hundred years later,King said and said to the crowd on the Mall, Now is the time and We can never be satisfied as long as,he dreamed:every valley exalted,all these years until not an end, they said,a beginning 20 O bless hold help keep him safe, let him help us through this cold, let us help him help us through this cold, let its end be O yes a beginning. 21 Cold is in the air, troops are finally out of Gaza where 1300 dead are on or in the ground where olive trees are up- rooted, down, spoons a coloring book limbs shoes in the rubble— In the depths of winter, he said. Today he is In, at work. 22 White roof over the roof, white branches clinging to branches, even the still fallen snow is moving, even icicles shift toward dripping, nothing, not even the cold bodies we are becoming is not moving, not even the ground is not moving, over, on 23 Beyond my windowed wall, gray clouds move over clouds, beyond the Wall that grays Gaza, dust over dust of disturbed bodies, wall with drawn- in windows, winter mirror 24 cold              heart               comfort           shoulder feet               hands             water               drawn in                  from                left                   out take              stay                 sober                stone grave            still                  body                turn on                 light                 open                to warm           up                     front                heart 25 fallen snow shifts blows drifts from tree to ground, leaves the beautiful skeletal limbs open to only all over air wind lifts then lets fall 26 He stumbled but still, she blundered but still, they said what they shouldn’t have said and recovered, of course they are the great but even the small (though all, we early learn, may fall) may leave the mistaken, misspoken behind as late we stumble into our selves. 27 maybe not long, you said, cancer cancer cancer, c’s crashing like waves— waves of frozen foam that day on that lake— you who please don’t go I can late we I can better Love I 28 mouth with you to mouth with you to body with you in body embodied, not yet un- bodied Love I can better no room so warm as with— I think I thought I could I can but not without you 29 In Vietnam: new year of the water buffalo, steady, slow, welcomed with peach blossoms, fruits, red wine— In Gaza: year of the new war, now ended but no room to bury the dead, no place for the living to buy food, water, any ... 30 for the woman who cooks on a fire of sticks, her bag of clothes on a tree for those going home to water their trees, lemon and almond and olive and for those trees 31 snow to rain to ice to melt to freeze frame window grayed in with old self same but new has come can better Love I—going home bless keep clean gray slate not white or black for even these few words, this small rain

The name itself is dismal. Stumbling Into adulthood, I spent a year there, On a narrow, much interrupted street. My austere block had a single, sick tree. Tim Fender and I rented a row house For only 50 bucks a month. Basically, It was a shell, bought by this gay man Who thought he would fix it up, but Grays Ferry made him so depressed, He just had to bolt. Being Catholic Irish, This hood couldn’t have been congenial To someone gay, unless he’s a priest. Still, I seriously doubt the neighbors did Or said anything. They certainly didn’t Show hostility to Tim or I, two art fags. Everyone suffered in Grays Ferry, and In 1986, it literally stank, for there were two Huge lots filled with garbage, thanks to a Twenty-day strike by Philly’s garbage men. I had left art school without a degree, For why borrow money to learn painting From all these failed artists? Why not just Slink somewhere and paint? Though I never Amounted to crap as a painter, I’ve taught Myself to write, sort of, instead of hocking My life to a bank, just so I could be misled And muddled by stunted or puffed up typists. That year, I manned up and mainlined Celine’s Death on the Installment Plan and his Journey To the End of the Night