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A Lady asks me I speak in season She seeks reason for an affect, wild often That is so proud he hath Love for a name Who denys it can hear the truth now Wherefore I speak to the present knowers Having no hope that low-hearted Can bring sight to such reason Be there not natural demonstration I have no will to try proof-bringing Or say where it hath birth What is its virtu and power Its being and every moving Or delight whereby ‘tis called “to love” Or if man can show it to sight. Where memory liveth, it takes its state Formed like a diafan from light on shade Which shadow cometh of Mars and remaineth Created, having a name sensate, Custom of the soul, will from the heart; Cometh from a seen form which being understood Taketh locus and remaining in the intellect possible Wherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing, Descendeth not by quality but shineth out Himself his own effect unendingly Not in delight but in the being aware Nor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere. He is not vertu but cometh of that perfection Which is so postulate not by the reason But ‘tis felt, I say. Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging force Deeming intention to be reason’s peer and mate, Poor in discernment, being thus weakness’ friend Often his power cometh on death in the end, Be it withstayed and so swinging counterweight. Not that it were natural opposite, but only Wry’d a bit from the perfect, Let no man say love cometh from chance Or hath not established lordship Holding his power even though Memory hath him no more. Cometh he to be when the will From overplus Twisteth out of natural measure, Never adorned with rest Moveth he changing colour Either to laugh or weep Contorting the face with fear resteth but a little Yet shall ye see of him That he is most often With folk who deserve him And his strange quality sets sighs to move Willing man look into that forméd trace in his mind And with such uneasiness as rouseth the flame. Unskilled can not form his image, He himself moveth not, drawing all to his stillness, Neither turneth about to seek his delight Nor yet to see out proving Be it so great or so small. He draweth likeness and hue from like nature So making pleasure more certain in seeming Nor can stand hid in such nearness, Beautys be darts tho’ not savage Skilled from such fear a man follows Deserving spirit, that pierceth. Nor is he known from his face But taken in the white light that is allness Toucheth his aim Who heareth, seeth not form But is led by its emanation Being divided, set out from colour, Disjunct in mid darkness Grazeth the light, one moving by other, Being divided, divided from all falsity Worthy of trust From him alone mercy proceedeth. Go, song, surely thou mayest Whither it please thee For so art thou ornate that thy reasons Shall be praised from thy understanders, With others hast thou no will to make company. “Called thrones, balascio or topaze” Eriugina was not understood in his time “which explains, perhaps, the delay in condemning him” And they went looking for Manicheans And found, so far as I can make out, no Manicheans So they dug for, and damned Scotus Eriugina “Authority comes from right reason, never the other way on” Hence the delay in condemning him Aquinas head down in a vacuum, Aristotle which way in a vacuum? Sacrum, sacrum, inluminatio coitu. Lo Sordels si fo di Mantovana of a castle named Goito. “Five castles! “Five castles!” (king giv’ him five castles) “And what the hell do I know about dye-works?!” His Holiness has written a letter: “CHARLES the Mangy of Anjou…. ..way you treat your men is a scandal….” Dilectis miles familiaris…castra Montis Odorisii Montis Sancti Silvestri pallete et pile… In partibus Thetis….vineland land tilled the land incult pratis nemoribus pascuis with legal jurisdiction his heirs of both sexes, …sold the damn lot six weeks later, Sordellus de Godio. Quan ben m’albir e mon ric pensamen.

Only sometimes does homegrown bedrock glow moneygreen. Sometimes rock whines mommy. Sometimes rock coos baby. Sometimes rock calls late with the mortgage. Sometimes rock knits shoulder blades right where you can’t pluck. Early mornings something doesn’t sit right over the sink. Sits crooked. Slumps askew. Body doesn’t lay the way you left it. Squinting gets you nowhere. You squat to the floor and feel around. Stop. Smell for it. Shrug. Still some dangling something modifies you. Smackdab midchest you feel lumpy empty. Sniff. Sniff. Shrug. Like those days we grab our own pickaxes and head down to the mine. We hum worksongs. We sing hymns. We chip worry stone. We gather moss. We lie flat. We scratch at the mineshaft. Not toward exit but deeper to the core.

On thin golden poles gliding up, sliding down, a kingdom of horses goes spinning around. Jumper, Brown Beauty, Dark Thunder, Sir Snow, a medley of ponies parade in a row. Settled in saddles, their riders hold on to reins of soft leather while circling along on chestnut or charcoal, on sleek Arctic white, on silver they gallop in place day and night. Such spinning is magic, (to dream as you sail) with lavender saddle and ebony tail, whirling to music in moonlight, spellbound, galloping, galloping, merrily go round.

All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top. Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing— The sounds that for these fifty years have been. The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode, A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room. And it would be the same were no house near. Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes. Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree.

How can it not be about engine, secret blaze behind the wheels? How not about this no-way-to-resist seeing but one side or another since the rails quite insist & iron's so right, always running off its own might. How never about freightage or the outdoor face in the indoor light? A yesteryear's pall over the day at hand? Not about the passings-by of nailed-shut houses & grouse setting sail from a rusty swing? How not me out of uniform, out of a sleeper's berth, bare & barely rising atop smoke & so little air left in the soft underbelly that I may meet—nay, embrace— the hello-goodbye cloud.

When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead And that thou think'st thee free From all solicitation from me, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see; Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before, Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think Thou call'st for more, And in false sleep will from thee shrink; And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie A verier ghost than I. What I will say, I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent.

You call me to the bath, where by evening light before bed I rub the ointment into your maculate back. I place my hand between the wings of your scapulae, where you cannot reach, cannot see—the arc of your life revealed in its pattern of coffee-colored spots—and hover there awhile, remembering how we watched the lover read the manuscript painted on the skin of his beloved; how he pressed the words to his chest and face—and cried out. The arteries in my palm open, their warmth rising between us as I massage you, neither sexual nor umbilical, this connection—you trusting your back to me, and me with no deceit. Only salve, only unguent. Only balm.

Mickey my cat is so sweet Mickey my cat waits patienly Mickey my cat always ready to be hugged... when he decides it

Moving forward or back? Which way am I? I wake grasping your nightgown. I am still there. In the haze of faces burning. Arch of spreading flame, black-haired girl in saddle shoes and plaid skirt, knee-deep in a yard of violets. Her father, in clogs, pounding a path home, balancing buckets of carp on a bamboo pole. Daughter, father, splash of carp, magenta rows, white light's flashbulb zing fades as I cling to silk's edge, slats of ribs a bridge I take to your belly's bulge. My pollen inside you, nubs of arms and legs, hands with fingers petaling. Vase of roses on the night stand. Your gold ring engraved with my initials. The father, feet from the gate, his daughter kneeling with shears, pruning flowerbeds. Sealed in sheets, I draw close to your body, place my ear against flesh, listen to the rhythmic thumping inside water.

i. My body a full echo                I dawdle down to the creek Ask the god of blood for Abundance     continuity My offering      the syrup of pressed beans   & A 7-winged tulip ii. Later the rains swell the creek with coffee            the storm        a beckoned sheet The immortal herself reaping the earth          the tongues cut out of the cows iii. I walk in                       as the wash      attempts its valiant swallow A cafeteria aid             wipes the cotton from the counter Her bald eyes              aurora with       seeds You brought that           didn’t you? iv. My bottom lip a pink venom     My desire a valley with legs       His steady fingers toying the tea            I look up to a straight line and bury it    Can’t downsize what hithers me Every now & then a troubled thirst opens my mouth for a song that does not come I feel it all until a fixed voice decides No      but wait      you’re the water