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You came to my door in the dawn and sang; it angered me to be awakened from sleep, and you went away unheeded. You came in the noon and asked for water; it vexed me in my work, and you were sent away with reproaches. You came in the evening with your flaming torches. You seemed to me like a terror and I shut my door. Now in the midnight I sit alone in my lampless room and call you back whom I turned away in insult.

The city at 3 a.m. is an ungodly mask the approaching day hides behind & from, the coyote nosing forth, the muscles of something ahead, & a fiery blaze of eighteen-wheelers zoom out of the curved night trees, along the rim of absolute chance. A question hangs in the oily air. She knows he will follow her scent left in the poisoned grass & buzz of chainsaws, if he can unweave a circle of traps around the subdivision. For a breathy moment, she stops on the world’s edge, & then quick as that masters the stars & again slips the noose & darts straight between sedans & SUVs. Don’t try to hide from her kind of blues or the dead nomads who walked trails now paved by wanderlust, an epoch somewhere between tamed & wild. If it were Monday instead of Sunday the outcome may be different, but she’s now in Central Park searching for a Seneca village among painted stones & shrubs, where she’s never been, & lucky she hasn’t forgotten how to jig & kill her way home.

1 Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face! Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you also face to face. Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me! On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose, And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. 2 The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day, The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme, The similitudes of the past and those of the future, The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river, The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away, The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them, The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others. Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore, Others will watch the run of the flood-tide, Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east, Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high, A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide. 3 It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not, I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence, Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd, Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d, Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried, Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d. I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old, Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow, Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south, Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water, Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward, Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars, The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset, The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night, Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets. 4 These and all else were to me the same as they are to you, I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river, The men and women I saw were all near to me, Others the same—others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them, (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.) 5 What is it then between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it, I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me, I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution, I too had receiv’d identity by my body, That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body. 6 It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw its patches down upon me also, The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious, My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil, I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d, Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant, The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting, Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest, Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing, Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat, Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word, Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping, Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress, The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like, Or as small as we like, or both great and small. 7 Closer yet I approach you, What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance, I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born. Who was to know what should come home to me? Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? 8 Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d Manhattan? River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide? The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter? What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach? What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face? Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you? We understand then do we not? What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted? What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not? 9 Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves! Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me! Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers! Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn! Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution! Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly! Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it! Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you; Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current; Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you! Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sunlit water! Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset! Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses! Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are, You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul, About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung out divinest aromas, Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers, Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual, Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting. You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers, We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward, Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us, We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us, We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also, You furnish your parts toward eternity, Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

Then there came again and touched me one like the appearance of a man, and he strengthened me—Daniel 10:18 febrile body I woke into: nightsweats, stink of the toil of living: where hands could not bear to approach me, the young man fingered lay upon me, was himself a cool sponge, drew my perspiration to his lips ice-chips he held in his teeth, he pushed small bergs into my mouth caressed the skeletal arms I’ve hidden in long sleeves kissed neck and chest, belly rotten with pudgy organs, thick-set flesh he pressed against me, cock on cock and tongue against tongue saw his reflection in my marshy eyes and did not flinch such weakness held, sustained by this capable stroke, boatswain of my crossing I take the death I’m moored to, announced as a measureless promontory and bob in the river like a bloated corpse, blue lips, vacant gaze I let the water fill my lungs until they rip their festive piñatas because the one who comes to gather me, capricious angel has a voice that affirms me rising when this fever abates For Haines Eason

after Kees' "Travels in North America" 1.Santa Fe "The walls are old," he says. I turn in the plaza and nod to Weldon Kees, his face as dark as the cool shadows that surround us, walls keeping him safe, honoring his silence, though he comes to me to be led away. "The mountains out there are not old," he claims and slips his hands into his coat. We cross the street, each Indian blanket on the ground holding jewelry I would love to touch, but Kees and the Navajo man selling his crafts are whispering to the ground. Kees surprises me by entering the Museum of Arts. I follow him, the stone floor ringing with our footsteps, empty arches blending above. Kees stops and turns to me. "One can see only so much," he says. He leads me to the twisted dwarf, the tangles form of faith and death, arrows bristling from its muscled body, a sacrifice of the ugly encased in glass, Kees staring at the sculpture as if he knows why we really can't see it. He points to the deepest arrow and places a hand on my shoulder. "When you believe this, you are home," he tells me and walks out. 2.Albuquerque The Sangre de Cristo mountains are old and he is driving my car to the highest ridge, the valley below avoiding the bright moon, the same white light in the bay Kees wanted to touch before he left. "Mist and clouds are a lie," he claims. "Look down there. Men are running away." He drives slowly to the top and we get out, the autumn sun burning terraces into scrub cedars and piñon pines he wrote about when he crossed here long ago, standing on the edge of the cliff as if this is the only way for him to go. "Look past what you want to see," he sighs as the wind takes his slick hair and makes him into someone I have seen before, the streets of Albuquerque down there as dusty as his closed eyes. We stand on the edge and I wait at this elevation with Kees who wrote that the towns we will not visit are places where home truly lies. "I must go," he decides. "Where to?" I ask. "Anyplace you haven't seen," he says, and walks down the mountain. 3.Tyuonyi Kees and I are happy when the sun splits the tree for a moment because yesterday controlled this mountain dawn, burning mud deeper into the adobe. Cottonwoods catch fire here, give the people time to hide inside turtle shells, though they come out to watch us. I stop as the drawings come to life under the arches, symbols familiar to those who sleep by crossing the street each night. As I stare, I realize a man who diappears wants to understand and not hide, yet the designs tempt me to walk in the wrong direction and leave him behind. To go farther up would mean a canyon where I have been. A dirt street inside another path, tiny houses falling back, letting me pass beyond their locked doors, as if the smoking windows know where I must go. When I enter the placita, the old woman is not there because this is about bringing Kees back. The dirt street opens to the last scorched tree breaking out of walls to shade what can't be blessed, its branches confusing until their cracks enter the ground in search of peace. 4.Santa Maria Water disappears to settle as clear glass that contains memories of thirst, the ancient hole found in the ruins, Kees' hand keeping the others from skimming the surface of the still water, reaching to be alone under the mountain wall, though eyes that watch have seen this before, men entering and never coming out. One hand keeps the other from touching the surface. Pulling back allows the echo of falling rocks, the deep swimmer breaking through walls to emerge on the other side of the well where the first figures to emerge in centuries are sitting and rubbing sand over their wet, shivering bodies. 5.Fort Selden Kees is getting tired in the desert heat and sits on a historic slab of western settlement, this old fort a museum where thirsty men come to drink from the bitter well. Kees smokes too many cigarettes and shakes his head at me, "Look at the moth and the deep iris in your garden because the equation I found in San Francisco is an eclipse drawn on paper by my trembling hands." He pauses and takes a drag, my head bathed in sweat and confusion as he coughs this, "It is too late because jazz has gone away. I placed a stone deity of a bird next to an eggplant on my desk, its smooth purple skin as significant as the gathering of birds in your head, their chirping coming from sorrow, even from the bay where I never told a lie, though the grand steps lead to the burned church where the musicians used to trace my forehead." I stare at him and he tosses smoke on the ground because we are close to home. 6.El Paso Kees waits at the bus station in my hometown. We cannot go farther because the border here is out there and as violent as the reasons he disappeared in San Francisco a long time ago. I want to tell him who I think he is, but I grew up here and must hide how things have really been, drawing the light off the mountains as if the doubters of history are simply starving boys offering to shine Kees' shoes on the corner of Paisano Street. My hometown has a bridge, but Kees won't go near it because he says to cross it would be to admit there is something wrong on the other side of my family's house. He can never cross because we have found our way here, El Paso dreaming its population of mute men must keep growing because the border keeps taking too many of them away. Kees looks at the bus schedule, runs out of cigarettes and everything is closed. He nods at nothing and waits on the bench with someone he swears looks like me.

The letter said you died on your tractor crossing Shoal Creek. There were no pictures to help the memories fading like mists off the bottoms that last day on the farm when I watched you milk the cows, their sweet breath filling the dark barn as the rain that wasn’t expected sluiced through the rain gutters. I waited for you to speak the loud familiar words about the weather, the failed crops— I would have talked then, too loud, stroking the Holstein moving against her stanchion— but there was only the rain on the tin roof, and the steady swish-swish of milk into the bright bucket as I walked past you, so close we could have touched.

The snail at the edge of the road inches forward, a trim gray finger of a fellow in pinstripe suit. He’s burdened by his house that has to follow where he goes.  Every inch, he pulls together all he is, all he owns, all he was given. The road is wide but he is called by something that knows him on the other side.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

My son's been learning time: big hand and little, powers of sixty and of twenty-four, the slow semaphore of days. He's brought home paper plates from kindergarten, arrows pointing at his favorite hours. So far the face of every clock has smiled. And before we read to sleep each night he crosses off another square on the calendar above his bed, counting down to Christmas or to nothing in particular, sometimes just a line he draws uphill or down, check marks like the ones his teacher leaves on sheets he's filled with capitals and lower cases, other times a pair of thick lines like the crossed bones on a pirate's flag, an X as if to mark the treasure buried in some ordinary week, no day yet a cross to bear.

One day we will all be like this—the boat’s sickening pitch, & the delicateness needless, consumable. How everything here naturally passes into night, a room w/o walls. Could mindlessness keep us alive? Could bright colors? Tonight I am thinking of the young woman who dreams of her father being shot in the head. Imagine needing to believe the one you love has been destroyed. Now it is after midnight—the spindrift lunar & diaphanous. Here alone on deck could I make peace w/it all in thirty seconds—the water’s inherent rising, the gasping for air? I have never seen such omnipresence, such vast dreamlessness— but I too am such things. What does it mean to be eroded? What would be the significance of slipping one leg over the rail & straddling the indifference? Yes. Once upon a time we spent three days on a boat out of Kobé, Japan. All night the waves. All night the somnambulistic urges. Or how as children we would swim in a hard rain—the lake’s surface ragged & torn, but underneath the roots of the water lilies like ladders trailing down into the marvelous.