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we floated asleep, as the house beams were carved with birds & waves through the night not knowing how to walk through sand dunes not knowing the sand blue color of your veins it is tiring to wake each day to the frost your out breath melancholy, smooth

Very small and damaged and quite dry, a Roman water nymph made of bone tries to summon a river out of limestone very eroded faded her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down a Roman water nymph made of bone tries to summon a river out of limestone exhausted        utterly worn down a Roman water nymph made of bone being the last known speaker of her language she tries to summon a river out of limestone little distant sound of dry grass        try again a Roman water nymph made of bone very endangered now in a largely unintelligible monotone she tries to summon a river out of limestone little distant sound as of dry grass     try again exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn in her passionate self-esteem she smiles looking sideways she seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle as of dry grass                                        try again she tries leaning pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full night-gear, who lies so low in the rickety willowherb that a fox trots out of the woods and over his back and away              try again she tries leaning pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn little lapping sounds        yes as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again little lapping sounds    yes as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again Roman bone figurine year after year in a sealed glass case having lost the hearing of her surroundings she struggles to summon a river out of limestone little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers year after year in a sealed glass case a Roman water nymph made of bone she struggles to summon a river out of limestone little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried-up woman not really moving through the fields having had the gleam taken out of her to the point where she resembles twilight        try again little shuffling clicking she opens the door of the church little distant sounds of shut-away singing    try again little whispering fidgeting of a shut-away congregation wondering who to pray to little patter of eyes closing                                    try again very small and damaged and quite dry a Roman water nymph made of bone she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried-up river not really moving through the fields, having had the gleam taken out of it to the point where it resembles twilight. little grumbling shivering last-ditch attempt at a river more nettles than water                                        try again very speechless very broken old woman her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down she tries to summon a river out of limestone little stoved-in sucked thin low-burning glint of stones rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights victim of Swindon puddle midden slum of over-greened foot-churn and pats whose crayfish are cheap tool-kits made of the mud stirred up when a stone's lifted it's a pitiable likeness of clear running struggling to keep up with what's already gone the boat the wheel the sluice gate the two otters larricking along                                     go on and they say oh they say in the days of better rainfall it would flood through five valleys there'd be cows and milking stools washed over the garden walls and when it froze you could skate for five miles      yes go on little loose end shorthand unrepresented beautiful disused route to the sea fish path with nearly no fish in

Metal giraffes march up the bluff toward the lighthouse. In the moonlight, whales, or their ghosts, litter the sand. There is a museum by the park that houses apartheid; contained in stiff wax dummies. The tour bus stops on the road’s edge. On the right a black town, the left Indian. Pointing he says: This is the racial divide. Stopping at the bar, the drink menu offers— Red’s Divas only five rand each. Each night the pounding sea reminds me that, here, women are older than God. These people carry their dead with them, plastering them onto every met face. Yet love hums like turning forks and the fading spreading sound is the growth of something more. Their absence is loud and I long for the confetti flutter of butterflies. Abattoirs litter the landscape with the sinister air of murder, signs proclaiming:Zumba Butchery, as though this is where the Zumba’s blood- lust got the better of them. The air conditioner in my room hums a dirge to a sea too busy spreading rumors. Death skips between street children playing hopscotch in the traffic. The woman singing in Zulu, in a Jamaican bar, is calling down fire, calling down fire. There is no contradiction.

During the Second World War, I was going home one night along a street I seldom used. All the stores were closed except one—a small fruit store. An old Italian was inside to wait on customers. As I was paying him I saw that he was sad. “You are sad,” I said. “What is troubling you?” “Yes,” he said, “I am sad.” Then he added in the same monotone, not looking at me: “My son left for the front today and I’ll never see him again.” “Don’t say that!” I said. “Of course, you will!” “No,” he answered. “I’ll never see him again.” Afterwards, when the war was over, I found myself once more in that street and again it was late at night, dark and lonely; and again I saw the old man alone in the store. I bought some apples and looked closely at him: his thin wrinkled face was grim but not particularly sad. “How about your son?” I said. “Did he come back from the war?” “Yes,” he answered. “He was not wounded?” “No. He is all right.” “That’s fine,” I said. “Fine!” He took the bag of apples from my hands and groping inside took out one that had begun to rot and put in a good one instead. “He came back at Christmas,” he added. “How wonderful! That was wonderful!” “Yes,” he said gently, “it was wonderful.” He took the bag of apples from my hands again and took out one of the smaller apples and put in a large one.

How strange my lack of faith must seem to you. I see the way your god provides a cradle for your grief; how lovely to be certain that the ancient story's true. You sang the hymns as if each word were new— At last , you sang, at last in Your / Eternal arms I'll find relief (how strange my lack of faith must seem to you)— while I kept drifting, lost in the refrains and in the blue fragility the tinted glass provided us to bow beneath (how lovely to be certain that the ancient story's true). Beneath that moderated sky we rose and sang and cried on cue; familiar words were read to keep our sorrow brief (how sad my lack of faith must seem to you); the book upon the altar and the hymnals in each pew held pages edged in fine gold leaf— how lovely seeing that the ancient story's true— and I was wondering just what it cost to see this vaulting through: the ceilings, windows, ornament; the engineering of belief . . . But let my lack of faith seem strange to you! You're lovely certain that the ancient story's true.

... only the new growth grass was wet behind her head and back. She could feel it and she could smell the grass rising up around her, saw the whole sky and saw the sky in its de facto language even though she was only seven. The year held out a bird skull in its opened hand, whole. Other birds were singing in a French film with no subtitles. It was black and white. But the sky was definitely blue, an invention of blue. A vector and hinge and rung of only blue already there, no matter where you looked. It took a long time. She looked a long time and in lockstep pressed the tips of her fingers into the mole-black dirt between grass blades. Only, this is the wrong story: she did not doom or injure any animals but she was restless then, and she was glad she was not safe.

When my brother came home from war he carried his left arm in a black sling but assured us most of it was still there. Spring was late, the trees forgot to leaf out. I stood in a long line waiting for bread. The woman behind me said it was shameless, someone as strong as I still home, still intact while her Michael was burning to death. Yes, she could feel the fire, could smell his pain all the way from Tarawa– or was it Midway?–and he so young, younger than I, who was only fourteen, taller, more handsome in his white uniform turning slowly gray the way unprimed wood grays slowly in the grate when the flames sputter and die. “I think I’m going mad,” she said when I turned to face her. She placed both hands on my shoulders, kissed each eyelid, hugged me to her breasts and whispered wetly in my bad ear words I’d never heard before. When I got home my brother ate the bread carefully one slice at a time until nothing was left but a blank plate. “Did you see her,” he asked, “the woman in hell, Michael’s wife?” That afternoon I walked the crowded streets looking for something I couldn’t name, something familiar, a face or a voice or less, but not these shards of ash that fell from heaven.

They sing their dearest songs— He, she, all of them—yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face. . . . Ah, no; the years O! How the sick leaves reel down in throngs! They clear the creeping moss— Elders and juniors—aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat. . . . Ah, no; the years, the years, See, the white storm-birds wing across. They are blithely breakfasting all— Men and maidens—yea, Under the summer tree, With a glimpse of the bay, While pet fowl come to the knee. . . . Ah, no; the years O! And the rotten rose is ript from the wall. They change to a high new house, He, she, all of them—aye, Clocks and carpets and chairs On the lawn all day, And brightest things that are theirs. . . . Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

What woke to war in me those years When my daughter had first grown into A solid self-centered self? I’d watch her Sit at the table—well, not quite sit, More like stand on one leg while The other knee hovered just over the chair. She wouldn't lower herself, as if There might be a fire, or a great black Blizzard of waves let loose in the kitchen, And she'd need to make her escape. No, She'd trust no one but herself, her own New lean always jittering legs to carry her— Where exactly? Where would a child go? To there. There alone. She'd rest one elbow On the table—the opposite one to the bent leg Skimming the solid expensive tasteful chair. And even though we were together, her eyes Would go half-dome, shades dropped Like a screen at some cinema the old aren't Let into. I thought I'd have more time! I thought My body would have taken longer going About the inevitable feat of repelling her, But now, I could see even in what food She left untouched, food I'd bought and made And all but ferried to her lips, I could see How it smacked of all that had grown slack And loose in me. Her other arm Would wave the fork around just above The surface of the plate, casting about For the least possible morsel, the tiniest Grain of unseasoned rice. She'd dip Into the food like one of those shoddy Metal claws poised over a valley of rubber Bouncing balls, the kind that lifts nothing Or next to nothing and drops it in the chute. The narrow untouched hips. The shoulders Still so naïve as to stand squared, erect, Impervious facing the window open Onto the darkening dusk.

spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!