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They lie under stars in a field. They lie under rain in a field. Under sun. Some people are like this as well— like a painting hidden beneath another painting. An unexpected weight the sign of their ripeness.

There is this tea I have sometimes, Pan Long Ying Hao, so tightly curled it looks like tiny roots gnarled, a greenish-gray. When it steeps, it opens the way you woke this morning, stretching, your hands behind your head, back arched, toes pointing, a smile steeped in ceremony, a celebration, the reaching of your arms.

Dr. L. H. Pammel Hybridization, cross-breeding, evolution: He takes to new theories like a puppy takes to ice cream. We whisper that our Green-Thumb Boy is the black Mendel, that Darwin would have made good use of Carver's eyes. So clear his gift for observation: the best collector I've ever known. I think we have an entirely new species of Pseudocercospora. And always in his threadbare lapel a flower. Even in January. I've never asked how. We had doubts about giving him a class to teach, but he's done a bang-up job with the greenhouse. His students see the light of genius through the dusky window of his skin. Just yesterday, that new boy, what's-his-name, from Arkansas, tried to raise a ruckus when Carver put his dinner tray down. He cleared his throat, stared, rattled his own tray, scraped his chair legs in a rush to move away. Carver ate on in silence. Then the boys at the table the new boy had moved to cleared their throats, rattled their trays and scraped their chair legs as they got up and moved to Carver's table. Something about the man does that, raises the best in you. I've never asked what. I guess I'll put his name next to mine on that article I'm sending out.

Greenland’s icy mountains are fascinating and grand, And wondrously created by the Almighty’s command; And the works of the Almighty there’s few can understand: Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland? Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass, And for scenic grandeur there’s nothing can it surpass, Besides there’s monuments and spires, also ruins, Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins. And there’s icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls, And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight, Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight! The icy mountains they’re higher than a brig’s topmast, And the stranger in amazement stands aghast As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice! Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen, Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green, And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side, And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside. Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o’er With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar; And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea, While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously. And those that can witness such an awful sight Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight, And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God. Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way! While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash. And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder, Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder; Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand. When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns, And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns, And around them there’s connected a beautiful ring of light, And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight. Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them; Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave! ’Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing, And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing, While the whales keep lashing the water all their might With their mighty tails, left and right. In winter there’s no sunlight there night or day, Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away, And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day, So as they will get basking themselves in the sun’s bright array. In summer there is perpetual sunlight, Which fill the Esquimaux’s hearts with delight; And is seen every day and night in the blue sky, Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye. During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow, Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux’ hearts with woe As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick, And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick. And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod; Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night, Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.

When the moon’s worn scutcheon touches the flint-gray flood, I will lave him in foxglove and vetch until the blood of his wretched heart heals. Without a scar, he stood— as the men make their way into the quaking wood.

Thirty-six-inch with several contusions, thirty-six- Inch bald, slight wear on the right, thirty-six-inch With a six-inch tear, thirty-six and evenly worded, Thirty-six on its side, thirty-one with evenly spaced Bald patches, larger with fist-sized threads, upright With fist-sized treads, half-burned with the right side Flattened, one rim with only a ripple of tread, two Melded together, one mag wheel with a sliver Of dark centre, three like links in a chain, Three like leaking clay, one like a grey whale’s Snout, two flattened whitewalls on top of three Barely discernable tube-like shapes, several earth Tones near a white crumb of tire, seven stacked Like folded commas, two very grey, burned tire Corpses, something like a tractor tire, bigger Than the others and basking in the sun, upper- Most on the tire pile, near the canyon walls. Four tires like forgotten bobsleds at the bottom, Several tires jutting out from the earth, Several at the top disentangled, but not free, Sitting on the earth, half immersed. At a distance, tires lose their particularity, Tires become brushstrokes, hills Fading into sky.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go.

is a river you wade in until you get to the other side. But I am here, stuck in the middle, water parting around my ankles, moving downstream over the flat rocks. I'm not able to lift a foot, move on. Instead, I'm going to stay here in the shallows with my sorrow, nurture it like a cranky baby, rock it in my arms. I don't want it to grow up, go to school, get married. It's mine. Yes, the October sunlight wraps me in its yellow shawl, and the air is sweet as a golden Tokay. On the other side, there are apples, grapes, walnuts, and the rocks are warm from the sun. But I'm going to stand here, growing colder, until every inch of my skin is numb. I can't cross over. Then you really will be gone.

The morning air is all awash with angels —Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World” The eyes open to a blue telephone In the bathroom of this five-star hotel. I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, Proctologist, urologist, or priest? Who is blessed among us and most deserves The first call? I choose my father because He’s astounded by bathroom telephones. I dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,” I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps, And then I remember that my father Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,” I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry— How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says. “I made him a cup of instant coffee This morning and left it on the table— Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years— And I didn’t realize my mistake Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs At the angels who wait for us to pause During the most ordinary of days And sing our praise to forgetfulness Before they slap our souls with their cold wings. Those angels burden and unbalance us. Those fucking angels ride us piggyback. Those angels, forever falling, snare us And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

Grieve not that winter masks the yet quick earth, Nor still that summer walks the hills no more; That fickle spring has doffed the plaid she wore To swathe herself in napkins till rebirth. These buddings, flowerings, are nothing worth; This ermine cloud stretched firm across the lakes Will presently be shattered into flakes; Then, starveling world, be subject to my mirth. I know that faithful swift mortality Subscribes to nothing longer than a day; All beauty signals imminent decay; And painted wreckage cumbers land and sea. I laugh to hear a sniveling wise one say, “Some winnowed self escapes this reckless way.”