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1 ONE Day the Amarous Lisander , By an impatient Passion sway'd, Surpris'd fair Cloris , that lov'd Maid, Who cou'd defend her self no longer ; All things did with his Love conspire, The gilded Planet of the Day, In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire, Was now descending to the Sea, And left no Light to guide the World , But what from Cloris brighter Eyes was hurl'd. 2 In alone Thicket , made for Love, Silent as yielding Maids Consent, She with a charming Languishment Permits his force, yet gently strove ? Her Hands his Bosom softly meet, But not to put him back design'd, Rather to draw him on inclin'd, Whilst he lay trembling at her feet; Resistance 'tis to late to shew, She wants the pow'r to say — Ah! what do you do? 3 Her bright Eyes sweat, and yet Severe, Where Love and Shame confus'dly strive, Fresh Vigor to Lisander give : And whispring softly in his Ear, She Cry'd — Cease — cease — your vain desire, Or I'll call out — What wou'd you do ? My dearer Honour, ev'n to you, I cannot — must not give — retire, Or take that Life whose chiefest part I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart. 4 But he as much unus'd to fear, As he was capable of Love, The blessed Minutes to improve, Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair ! Each touch her new Desires alarms ! His burning trembling Hand he prest Upon her melting Snowy Breast, While she lay panting in his Arms ! All her unguarded Beauties lie The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy. 5 And now, without Respect or Fear, He seeks the Objects of his Vows ; His Love no Modesty allows : By swift degrees advancing where His daring Hand that Alter seiz'd, Where Gods of Love do Sacrifice ; That awful Throne , that Paradise, Where Rage is tam'd, and Anger pleas'd ; That Living Fountain , from whose Trills The melted Soul in liquid Drops distils. 6 Her balmy Lips encountring his, Their Bodies as their Souls are joyn'd, Where both in Transports were confin'd, Extend themselves upon the Moss . Cloris half dead and breathless lay, Her Eyes appear'd like humid Light , Such as divides the Day and Night ; Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay ; And now no signs of Life she shows, But what in short-breath-sighs returns and goes. 7 He saw how at her length she lay, He saw her rising Bosom bare, Her loose thin R obes , through which appear A Shape design'd for Love and Play ; Abandon'd by her Pride and Shame, She do's her softest Sweets dispence , Offring her Virgin-Innocence A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame ; Whilst th' or'e ravish'd Shepherd lies, Unable to perform the Sacrifice. 8 Ready to taste a Thousand Joys, Thee too transported hapless Swain, Found the vast Pleasure turn'd to Pain : Pleasure , which too much Love destroys ! The willing Garments by he laid, And Heav'n all open to his view ; Mad to possess, himself he threw On the defenceless lovely Maid. But oh ! what envious Gods conspire To snatch his Pow'r, yet leave him the Desire ! 9 Natures support , without whose Aid She can no humane Being give, It self now wants the Art to live, Faintness it slacken'd Nerves invade : In vain th' enraged Youth assaid To call his fleeting Vigour back, No Motion 'twill from Motion take, Excess of Love his Love betray'd ; In vain he Toils, in vain Commands, Th' Insensible fell weeping in his Hands. 10 In this so Am'rous cruel strife, Where Love and Fate were too severe, The poor Lisander in Despair , Renounc'd his Reason with his Life. Now all the Brisk and Active Fire That should the Nobler Part inflame, Unactive Frigid, Dull became, And left no Spark for new Desire ; Not all her Naked Charms cou'd move, Or calm that Rage that had debauch'd his Love. 11 Cloris returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her tim'rous Hand she gently laid, Or guided by Design or Chance, Upon that Fabulous Priapus , That Potent God (as Poets feign.) But never did young Shepherdess (Gath'ring of Fern upon the Plain) More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the Verdant Leaves a Snake. 12 Then Cloris her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm'd of all his pow'rful Fires, And cold as Flow'rs bath'd in the Morning-dew . Who can the Nymphs Confusion guess ? The Blood forsook the kinder place, And strew'd with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame express ; And from Lisanders Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the gloomy Bed . 13 Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or Daphne from the Delphick God ; No Print upon the Grassie Road She leaves, t' instruct pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton'd in her Hair , And with her ruffled Garments plaid, Discover'd in the flying Maid All that the Gods e're made of Fair . So Venus , when her Love was Slain, With fear and haste flew o're the fatal Plain. 14 The Nymphs resentments, none but I Can well imagin, and Condole ; But none can guess Lisander 's Soul, But those who sway'd his Destiny : His silent Griefs, swell up to Storms , And not one God, his Fury spares, He Curst his Birth , his Fate , his Stars , But more the Shepherdesses Charms ; Whose soft bewitching influence, Had Damn'd him to the Hell of Impotence .

Once warring factions agreed upon the date and final form the apocalypse would take, and whether dogs and cats and certain trees deserved to sail, and if the dead would come or be left a forwarding address, then opposing soldiers met on ravaged plains to shake hands and postulate the exact shade of the astral self—some said lavender, others gray. And physicists rocketed copies of the decree to paradise in case God had anything to say, the silence that followed being taken for consent, and so citizens readied for celestial ascent. Those who hated the idea stayed indoors till the appointed day. When the moon clicked over the sun like a black lens over a white eye, they stepped out onto porches and balconies to see the human shapes twist and rise through violet sky and hear trees uproot with a sound like enormous zippers unfastening. And when the last grassblades filled the air, the lonely vigilants fell in empty fields to press their bodies hard into dirt, hugging their own outlines. Then the creator peered down from his perch, as the wind of departing souls tore the hair of those remaining into wild coronas, and he mourned for them as a father for defiant children, and he knew that each small skull held, if not some vision of his garden, then its aroma of basil and tangerine washed over by the rotting sea. They alone sensed what he’d wanted as he first stuck his shovel into clay and flung the planets over his shoulder, or used his thumbnail to cut smiles and frowns on the first blank faces. Even as the saints arrived to line before his throne singing and a wisteria poked its lank blossoms through the cloudbank at his feet, he trained his gaze on the deflating globe where the last spreadeagled Xs clung like insects, then vanished in puffs of luminous smoke, which traveled a long way to sting his nostrils, the journey lasting more than ten lifetimes. A mauve vine corkscrewed up from the deep oblivion, carrying the singed fume of things beautiful, noble, and wrong.

I should be diligent and firm, I know I should, and frowning, too; again you’ve failed to clean your room. Not only that, the evidence of midnight theft is in your bed— cracked peanut shells and m&m’s are crumbled where you rest your head, and just above, the windowsill is crowded with a green giraffe (who’s peering through your telescope), some dominoes, and half a glass of orange juice. You hungry child, how could I be uncharmed by this, your secret world, your happy mess?

Throw away thy rod, Throw away thy wrath: O my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart’s desire Unto thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep: Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed: For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love’s a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can ’scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away thy wrath.

St. Joseph’s Hospital, Tacoma WA, 1969-74. A headache makes your mouth plunge, then it pulls away. The smell of diesel or the smell of rain. Now you are a thick suburb. Under the pressure of a credit card. Your body is a box of mirrors, a mercury mine. You have blossomed and spread, white mystery of spring. All your blood and treasure is spent. O rose, you are sick. The morning rain does not nourish you. Your mouth is caught in a rigid O. Where only deficit is at home. You stand beneath a white hospital, almost drunk. You cannot say why your sense is drenched: exhaustion or debt. What’s the difference again? A braid of eyes. Curtains the color of a dove’s wing. Ceramic lips framed against seismic shatter. “Soft zone.” Meanwhile your uncle is dying in San Francisco and you do not know it. You are standing in front of another hospital whose patients are strangers. You unwind a rope of carbon so that you can post pictures of it on the internet. How much damage does your life do and how can you refuse? O rose, you are sick. Only injury sustains you.

Quilt voice into flat prairie land. Swell stature into argument. Carve wrongdoing into wood chips, easily digestible. Engage in preemptive fork removal. Do not be implicit. Silence, a coiled threat. What’s in your holster? Separate the child from the chaff. I mean, spoon the cream off the top. What do you mean you don’t have a holster? Keep the curds. Discard the whey.

1 Beneath the writing on the wall is the writing it was designed to obscure. The two together form a third kind 2 There is no writing on the wall’s other side Perhaps this lack constitutes a fourth kind 3 Some of the writing on the wall will be designed as truth some as art 4 It is said to represent a mirror of everyday life in its time 5 “Fabius Naso talks through his asshole and shits out his mouth” for example 6 “Foute les Arabes” for example 7 Certain words and images or parts of images have been chipped away These often turn up for sale at sidewalk stalls before the walls of other cities 8 I too have an image for sale It’s the image of a poem and is to be found on the reverse of this sheet

We could hear her knocking down strands of cobweb from ceilings—sticky filaments, sacs of eggs—as we woke most mornings to a worm of discontent. It lodged beneath the heart, rubbed our frayed nerves, gnawed at the gut, spleen, ovaries. Filth was Mom's first enemy, so each day began with ritual cleaning: the stab and sweep of the broom down the dark hall, over the stained and scratched oak floors. For weeks, she held her dust mop one-handed, and with the other cupped a hernia, while she swore at us kids in that hard voice—a litany of our sins and failures: sloth, stupidity, secrecy. We watched her smash the spiders that ran, herky-jerky, along the baseboards, while we ran, too. Glaring at each other, we gathered up the scattered laundry, our father’s shoes, his newspapers and tools, our books, drawings, music, sweatshirts, and jackets, whatever we’d left lying around. We were guilty, but good at evasion. We cultivated shrewish or obsessive behaviors of our own: my tough older sister sneered and stalked out of the house to meet her boyfriend; my sweet younger sister trembled and cried, comforted by one of our many dogs. I slammed doors, pounded them with my fists, screamed, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She couldn’t leave us alone. She loved us too much. Though we were quick, she was quicker. Her words stung. We must have deserved it.

More discontents I never had Since I was born, than here; Where I have been, and still am, sad, In this dull Devonshire. Yet justly too I must confess, I ne'er invented such Ennobled numbers for the press, Than where I loath'd so much.

The frightful reality of things Is my everyday discovery. Each thing is what it is. How can I explain to anyone how much I rejoice over this, and find it enough? To be whole, it is enough to exist. I have written quite a number of poems And may write many more, of course. Each poem of mine explains it, Though all my poems are different, Because each thing that exists is always proclaiming it. Sometimes I busy myself with watching a stone, I don't begin thinking whether it feels. I don't force myself to call it my sister, But I enjoy it because of its being a stone, I enjoy it because it feels nothing, I enjoy it because it is not at all related to me. At times I also hear the wind blow by And find that merely to hear the wind blow makes it worth having been born. I don't know what others will think who read this; But I find it must be good because I think it without effort, And without the idea of others hearing me think, Because I think it without thoughts, Because I say it as my words say it. Once they called me a materialist poet And I admired myself because I never thought That I might be called by any name at all. I am not even a poet: I see. If what I write has any value, it is not I who am valuable. The value is there, in my verses. All this has nothing whatever to do with any will of mine.