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In one dream I am made watchful. In this dream the name we never clearly have heard is spoken, which name, if we knew and could speak it, would call back to us those whom in time we will have come to love and who will die; would bring them back to us like us abandoned again to his terrible consequence, the silence between us forever affirmed. And in whatever might constitute the pardon would come down in a fragile rain the whole matter of all we will ever love, the whole fiery blade of space, ten billions of suns suddenly blossoming small and cool as snowdrops over the opening graves, the world shimmering with the blue delicate membrane of the fallen sky, while above us the forsaken voice calls out come back come back as if calling the name each of us had long forgotten until that very instant not remembered as proper to our hearts.

St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no—already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting faerily The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland: He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."—"Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!" He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve— Yet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: "A cruel man and impious thou art: Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears; Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, Were never miss'd."—Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespy'd, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide: No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:— O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he forth from the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be, He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy": Close to her ear touching the melody;— Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd The blisses of her dream so pure and deep At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odour with the violet,— Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;— A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,—sav'd by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;— The bloated wassaillers will never heed:— Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,— Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears— Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.— In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flaggon by his side: The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:— The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;— The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

Man-dirt and stomachs that the sea unloads; rockets of quick lice crawling inland, planting their damn flags, putting their malethings in any hole that will stand still, yapping bloody murder while they slice off each other’s heads, spewing themselves around, priesting, whoring, lording it over little guys, messing their pants, writing gush-notes to their grandmas, wanting somebody to do something pronto, wanting the good thing right now and the bad stuff for the other boy. Gullet, praise God for the gut with the patented zipper; sing loud for the lads who sell ice boxes on the burning deck. Dear reader, gentle reader, dainty little reader, this is the way we go round the milktrucks and seamusic, Sike’s trap and Meg’s rib, the wobbly sparrow with two strikes on the bible, behave Alfred, your pokus is out; I used to collect old ladies, pickling them in brine and painting mustaches on their bellies, later I went in for stripteasing before Save Democracy Clubs; when the joint was raided we were all caught with our pants down. But I will say this: I like butter on both sides of my bread and my sister can rape a Hun any time she’s a mind to, or the Yellow Peril for that matter; Hector, your papa’s in the lobby. The old days were different; the ball scores meant something then, two pill in the side pocket and two bits says so; he got up slow see, shook the water out of his hair, wam, tell me that ain’t a sweet left hand; I told her what to do and we did it, Jesus I said, is your name McCoy? Maybe it was the beer or because she was only sixteen but I got hoarse just thinking about her; married a john who travels in cotton underwear. Now you take today; I don’t want it. Wessex, who was that with I saw you lady? Tony gave all his dough to the church; Lizzie believed in feeding her own face; and that’s why you’ll never meet a worm who isn’t an antichrist, my friend, I mean when you get down to a brass tack you’ll find some sucker sitting on it. Whereas. Muckle’s whip and Jessie’s rod, boyo, it sure looks black in the gut of this particular whale. Hilda, is that a .38 in your handbag? Ghosts in packs like dogs grinning at ghosts Pocketless thieves in a city that never sleeps Chains clank, warders curse, this world is stark mad Hey! Fatty, don’t look now but that’s a Revolution breathing down your neck.

Pomegranates fell from the trees in our sleep. If we stayed in the sun too long there were aloes to cool the burn. Henbane for predators and succulents when the rain was scarce. There was no glorified past to point the way true and natural for the sexes to meet. He kept looking to the heavens as if the answer were anywhere but here. I was so bored with our goodness I couldn’t suck the juice from one more pear. It’s here, I kept telling him, here, rooted in the soil like every other tree you know. And I wove us a bed of its uppermost branches.

Then there's the Yemeni legend of Eve in the Garden knitting a pattern on the serpent's back, the snake unfinished like the rest of creation, the first woman thinking to add design, a sheath of interlocking diamonds and stripes along that sensuous S, knitting giving her time to learn what's infinitely possible with a few stitches, twisting cables, hers a plan to mirror the divine inner layer that can't be shed no matter what it rubs up against.

The three men now stood satisfied, arms crossed, joking among themselves, but only moments before they hadn’t been laughing. It had taken all three to bind the struggling man. First, to limit his movement, they had duct-taped his wrists together behind his back: for that, one man had held his legs and another had pinned him, one hand on each shoulderblade and one knee on his head, at his left temple, grinding his right cheek and eye into the dust and straw and dried shit that formed the floor of the barn. First they bound his wrists, then his ankles. Then it got easier. More tape over his mouth, wound all the way around his head, three full loops, much more than was necessary, which was one thing they were laughing about, the two bigger men making fun of the smaller one, who had done that part of the binding. Then they’d bound him down on the mattress, again with the tape. The bound man continued to struggle, but once the tape denied him movement he felt as if he were thinking clearly, as if his panic had lifted, resistance become mere obligation. He thought surely the tape would run out, but they had another roll, just in case. He noticed the new order—head first this round—when it came to the mattress. One man would lift one end just off the dirt, enough for another to wrap the tape, which cursed coming off the roll in what the man construed as sympathy, all the way around the mattress in loops that included his head and neck, then the same process at the other end, all the way around the mattress and his ankles. They couldn’t figure how to get the tape around his torso because it was so near the middle of the mattress. The bound man found himself wanting to help, but of course he couldn’t speak, and anyway they didn’t need his advice. His hands bound behind his back and against the mattress meant his feet and head, and most of all his neck, were plenty to keep him from getting loose and grabbing one of their guns. The bound man’s life didn’t pass before him in summary, exactly, but he did see things now that in all these years he hadn’t noticed. The wiring, for instance. He thought it must have been his own father who’d wired the barn with that odd blend of pride and makeshift half-competence that showed up in all his father’d made, himself not least. One bare bulb bragging from the highest joist about its white porcelain fixture, but better, really, at casting long shadows than at lighting the place, though if the three men would just leave him alone, he thought, he’d be able to count up all the birds’ nests and speculate on where swallows had built before there were barns. The wire ran from switchbox to fixture in straight lines and right angles, through half-inch galvanized surely intended for plumbing but good, too, for frustrating the rats. It was the short man, the one who’d done all the taping, who then poured kerosene across the mattress and over the man, soaking his clothes, making sure to splash some into his eyes. No one else noticed, but he spelled out fuck with the kerosene. Or anyway swung his arms in that pattern. That was when they could relax a little, the three men, and start their joking, once the kerosene was poured. One tall man slapped his forehead: “You brought matches, right?” “Matches?” the other replied, furrowing his brow and patting his pockets, and both laughed out loud. Even the short man smiled. Barns burn, it turns out, just the way you’d think if you thought about it, hay fast and hot, siding lighting the roof and the flooring of the loft, all the slender strips of wood, with the few parts not tinder— the frame, the beams and joists—starting last and lasting longest. But that’s not what the mattress-bound man’s great-great-grandfather had thought about, its someday burning, as he built the barn. He had a daughter to worry about, and a wife big with what he thought might be a boy. And weather, and a dozen cows. Plenty to fret more immediate than which fuck-up would later taint his bloodline and preside over the decay, finally inviting the sacrifice, of what he had built to last. Barns burn like bonfires built for the burning, stacked just so by one mortal for the next. They burn best at night, whether or not communicants travel up and down billows lit silver from above, red from below. And whether or not three men have stopped among sycamores on the rise just opposite and turned for a moment to admire their handiwork.

But the truth is, I am Thursday on a Monday. I Am the walking calendar alive of mixed-up days and dim hours. I have A week inside of me, a week or a year, time out of order. I have contracted With the world to behave, to try, hard, to be Monday on a Monday. I Look like I am happiness, don’t you think? On Monday, to you I have The right laugh, and seem always to be even-keeled and at-eased.

even when issues arise and obedience can not be secured by the bludgeon, the bludgeon remains; when we mention the people, we do not mean the confessional body of the people, we mean particularly itinerant bodies in mechanic flux, preaching freedom beyond flesh pamphlets of authority, concealed in blind devotion. when we mean the people, we mean a people knowing their own strength cast as day laborers, or knowing to a greater part of a lesser known part playing paid intercourse in all connections for the people by the people. when we mean, we mean broke or abrasive worn, once open scream representatives, now incarcerated in a rationalistic shadow land, given a history that merges extruder merchandising with wholesale lots of intermittent dung, or objects for understudy beatings.

Even with insects— some can sing, some can’t.

The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide-spread under the light grow faint— the petals reach inward, the blue tips bend toward the bluer heart and the flowers are lost. The cornel-buds are still white, but shadows dart from the cornel-roots— black creeps from root to root, each leaf cuts another leaf on the grass, shadow seeks shadow, then both leaf and leaf-shadow are lost.