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From the platform, iron iterates way into time. The tracks are staples intervaled along my father’s spine. Before me might be somebody’s father, waited for — white choker of a condor, dry lips of lifelong acolyte. I barely brush his arm, so as not to make him start. Who knows how he might play out: cave in, tear apart? He deeds toward me, wet wood breakable. All in all of direst bark. This is how it starts, at last, I recall. “I thought you were someone, otherwise.” The rail lines rattle like beetle files. He frowns. Establishes his palms. “Tell me. Does that happen often, lamb?”

Here in life, they would understand. How could it be otherwise? We had groped too, unwise, till the margin began to give way, at which point all was sullen, or lost, or both. Now it was time, and there was nothing for it. We had a good meal, I and my friend, slurping from the milk pail, grabbing at newer vegetables. Yet life was a desert. Come home, in good faith. You can still decide to. But it wanted warmth. Otherwise ruse and subtlety would become impossible in the few years or hours left to us. “Yes, but . . .” The iconic beggars shuffled off   too. I told you, once a breach emerges it will become a chasm before anyone’s had a chance to waver. A dispute on the far side of town erupts into a war in no time at all, and ends as abruptly. The tendency to heal sweeps all before it, into the arroyo, the mine shaft, into whatever pocket you were contemplating. And the truly lost make up for it. It’s always us that has to pay. I have a suggestion to make: draw the sting out as probingly as you please. Plaster the windows over with wood pulp against the noon gloom proposing its enigmas, its elixirs. Banish truth-telling. That’s the whole point, as I understand it. Each new investigation rebuilds the urgency, like a sand rampart. And further reflection undermines it, causing its eventual collapse. We could see all that from a distance, as on a curving abacus, in urgency mode from day one, but by then dispatches hardly mattered. It was camaraderie, or something like it, that did, poring over us like we were papyri, hoping to find one correct attitude sketched on the gaslit air, night’s friendly takeover.

I want to go to the other bank The river water alters the sky's colour and alters me I am in the current my shadow stands by the river bank like a tree struck by lightning I want to go to the other bank In the trees on the other bank a solitary startled wood pigeon flies towards me

I got a call from the White House, from the President himself, asking me if I’d do him a personal favor. I like the President, so I said, “Sure, Mr. President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?” “Why, sure, Mr. President, you’ve got it. Normal, that’s how I’m going to act. I won’t let on, even if I’m tortured,” I said, immediately regretting that “tortured” bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was dying to tell someone that the President himself called me, but I knew I couldn’t. The sudden pressure to act normal was killing me. And what was going on anyway. I didn’t know anything was going on. I saw the President on TV yesterday. He was shaking hands with a farmer. What if it wasn’t really a farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on. I looked “normal” to me, but maybe I looked more like I was trying to be normal. That’s pretty suspicious. I opened the door and looked around. What was going on? There was a car parked in front of my car that I had never seen before, a car that was trying to look normal, but I wasn’t fooled. If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise people will think something’s going on. I got into my car and sped down the road. I could feel those little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush, but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop me. I ran into Kirsten in the store. “Hey, what’s going on, Leon?” she said. She had a very nice smile. I hated to lie to her. “Nothing’s going on. Just getting milk for my cat,” I said. “I didn’t know you had a cat,” she said. “I meant to say coffee. You’re right, I don’t have a cat. Sometimes I refer to my coffee as my cat. It’s just a private joke. Sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Nothing’s going on, Kirsten. I promise you. Everything is normal. The President shook hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such a big deal?” I said. “I saw that,” she said, “and that man was definitely not a farmer.” “Yeah, I know,” I said, feeling better.

[for Alix Walcott] i Between the vision of the Tourist Board and the true Paradise lies the desert where Isaiah’s elations force a rose from the sand. The thirty-third canto cores the dawn clouds with concentric radiance, the breadfruit opens its palms in praise of the bounty, bois-pain, tree of bread, slave food, the bliss of John Clare, torn, wandering Tom, stoat-stroker in his county of reeds and stalk-crickets, fiddling the dank air, lacing his boots with vines, steering glazed beetles with the tenderest prods, knight of the cockchafer, wrapped in the mists of shires, their snail-horned steeples palms opening to the cupped pool—but his soul safer than ours, though iron streams fetter his ankles. Frost whitening his stubble, he stands in the ford of a brook like the Baptist lifting his branches to bless cathedrals and snails, the breaking of this new day, and the shadows of the beach road near which my mother lies, with the traffic of insects going to work anyway. The lizard on the white wall fixed on the hieroglyph of its stone shadow, the palms’ rustling archery, the souls and sails of circling gulls rhyme with: “In la sua volont    è nostra pace,” In His will is our peace. Peace in white harbours, in marinas whose masts agree, in crescent melons left all night in the fridge, in the Egyptian labours of ants moving boulders of sugar, words in this sentence, shadow and light, who live next door like neighbours, and in sardines with pepper sauce. My mother lies near the white beach stones, John Clare near the sea-almonds, yet the bounty returns each daybreak, to my surprise, to my surprise and betrayal, yes, both at once. I am moved like you, mad Tom, by a line of ants; I behold their industry and they are giants. ii There on the beach, in the desert, lies the dark well where the rose of my life was lowered, near the shaken plants, near a pool of fresh tears, tolled by the golden bell of allamanda, thorns of the bougainvillea, and that is their bounty! They shine with defiance from weed and flower, even those that flourish elsewhere, vetch, ivy, clematis, on whom the sun now rises with all its power, not for the Tourist Board or for Dante Alighieri, but because there is no other path for its wheel to take except to make the ruts of the beach road an allegory of this poem’s career, of yours, that she died for the sake of a crowning wreath of false laurel; so, John Clare, forgive me, for this morning’s sake, forgive me, coffee, and pardon me, milk with two packets of artificial sugar, as I watch these lines grow and the art of poetry harden me into sorrow as measured as this, to draw the veiled figure of Mamma entering the standard elegiac. No, there is grief, there will always be, but it must not madden, like Clare, who wept for a beetle’s loss, for the weight of the world in a bead of dew on clematis or vetch, and the fire in these tinder-dry lines of this poem I hate as much as I love her, poor rain-beaten wretch, redeemer of mice, earl of the doomed protectorate of cavalry under your cloak; come on now, enough! iii Bounty! In the bells of tree-frogs with their steady clamour in the indigo dark before dawn, the fading morse of fireflies and crickets, then light on the beetle’s armour, and the toad’s too-late presages, nettles of remorse that shall spring from her grave from the spade’s heartbreak. And yet not to have loved her enough is to love more, if I confess it, and I confess it. The trickle of underground springs, the babble of swollen gulches under drenched ferns, loosening the grip of their roots, till their hairy clods like unclenching fists swirl wherever the gulch turns them, and the shuddering aftermath bends the rods of wild cane. Bounty in the ant’s waking fury, in the snail’s chapel stirring under wild yams, praise in decay and process, awe in the ordinary in wind that reads the lines of the breadfruit’s palms in the sun contained in a globe of the crystal dew, bounty in the ants’ continuing a line of raw flour, mercy on the mongoose scuttling past my door, in the light’s parallelogram laid on the kitchen floor, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Glory, and the Power, the bells of Saint Clement’s in the marigolds on the altar, in the bougainvillea’s thorns, in the imperial lilac and the feathery palms that nodded at the entry into Jerusalem, the weight of the world on the back of an ass; dismounting, He left His cross there for sentry and sneering centurion; then I believed in His Word, in a widow’s immaculate husband, in pews of brown wood, when the cattle-bell of the chapel summoned our herd into the varnished stalls, in whose rustling hymnals I heard the fresh Jacobean springs, the murmur Clare heard of bounty abiding, the clear language she taught us, “as the hart panteth,” at this, her keen ears pronged while her three fawns nibbled the soul-freshening waters, “as the hart panteth for the water-brooks” that belonged to the language in which I mourn her now, or when I showed her my first elegy, her husband’s, and then her own. iv But can she or can she not read this? Can you read this, Mamma, or hear it? If I took the pulpit, lay-preacher like tender Clare, like poor Tom, so that look, Miss! the ants come to you like children, their beloved teacher Alix, but unlike the silent recitation of the infants, the choir that Clare and Tom heard in their rainy county, we have no solace but utterance, hence this wild cry. Snails move into harbour, the breadfruit plants on the Bounty will be heaved aboard, and the white God is Captain Bligh. Across white feathery grave-grass the shadow of the soul passes, the canvas cracks open on the cross-trees of the Bounty, and the Trades lift the shrouds of the resurrected sail. All move in their passage to the same mother-country, the dirt-clawing weasel, the blank owl or sunning seal. Faith grows mutinous. The ribbed body with its cargo stalls in its doldrums, the God-captain is cast adrift by a mutinous Christian, in the wake of the turning Argo plants bob in the ocean’s furrows, their shoots dip and lift, and the soul’s Australia is like the New Testament after the Old World, the code of an eye for an eye; the horizon spins slowly and Authority’s argument diminishes in power, in the longboat with Captain Bligh. This was one of your earliest lessons, how the Christ-Son questions the Father, to settle on another island, haunted by Him, by the speck of a raging deity on the ruled horizon, diminishing in meaning and distance, growing more dim: all these predictable passages that we first disobey before we become what we challenged; but you never altered your voice, either sighing or sewing, you would pray to your husband aloud, pedalling the hymns we all heard in the varnished pew: “There Is a Green Hill Far Away,” “Jerusalem the Golden.” Your melody faltered but never your faith in the bounty which is His Word. v All of these waves crepitate from the culture of Ovid, its sibilants and consonants; a universal metre piles up these signatures like inscriptions of seaweed that dry in the pungent sun, lines ruled by mitre and laurel, or spray swiftly garlanding the forehead of an outcrop (and I hope this settles the matter of presences). No soul was ever invented, yet every presence is transparent; if I met her (in her nightdress ankling barefoot, crooning to the shallows), should I call her shadow that of a pattern invented by Graeco-Roman design, columns of shadows cast by the Forum, Augustan perspectives— poplars, casuarina-colonnades, the in-and-out light of almonds made from original Latin, no leaf but the olive’s? Questions of pitch. Faced with seraphic radiance (don’t interrupt!), mortals rub their skeptical eyes that hell is a beach-fire at night where embers dance, with temporal fireflies like thoughts of Paradise; but there are inexplicable instincts that keep recurring not from hope or fear only, that are real as stones, the faces of the dead we wait for as ants are transferring their cities, though we no longer believe in the shining ones. I half-expect to see you no longer, then more than half, almost never, or never then—there I have said it— but felt something less than final at the edge of your grave, some other something somewhere, equally dreaded, since the fear of the infinite is the same as death, unendurable brightness, the substantial dreading its own substance, dissolving to gases and vapours, like our dread of distance; we need a horizon, a dividing line that turns the stars into neighbours though infinity separates them, we can think of only one sun: all I am saying is that the dread of death is in the faces we love, the dread of our dying, or theirs; therefore we see in the glint of immeasurable spaces not stars or falling embers, not meteors, but tears. vi The mango trees serenely rust when they are in flower, nobody knows the name for that voluble cedar whose bell-flowers fall, the pomme-arac purples its floor. The blue hills in late afternoon always look sadder. The country night waiting to come in outside the door; the firefly keeps striking matches, and the hillside fumes with a bluish signal of charcoal, then the smoke burns into a larger question, one that forms and unforms, then loses itself in a cloud, till the question returns. Buckets clatter under pipes, villages begin at corners. A man and his trotting dog come back from their garden. The sea blazes beyond the rust roofs, dark is on us before we know it. The earth smells of what’s done, small yards brighten, day dies and its mourners begin, the first wreath of gnats; this was when we sat down on bright verandahs watching the hills die. Nothing is trite once the beloved have vanished; empty clothes in a row, but perhaps our sadness tires them who cherished delight; not only are they relieved of our customary sorrow, they are without hunger, without any appetite, but are part of earth’s vegetal fury; their veins grow with the wild mammy-apple, the open-handed breadfruit, their heart in the open pomegranate, in the sliced avocado; ground-doves pick from their palms; ants carry the freight of their sweetness, their absence in all that we eat, their savour that sweetens all of our multiple juices, their faith that we break and chew in a wedge of cassava, and here at first is the astonishment: that earth rejoices in the middle of our agony, earth that will have her for good: wind shines white stones and the shallows’ voices. vii In spring, after the bear’s self-burial, the stuttering crocuses open and choir, glaciers shelve and thaw, frozen ponds crack into maps, green lances spring from the melting fields, flags of rooks rise and tatter the pierced light, the crumbling quiet avalanches of an unsteady sky; the vole uncoils and the otter worries his sleek head through the verge’s branches; crannies, culverts, and creeks roar with wrist-numbing water. Deer vault invisible hurdles and sniff the sharp air, squirrels spring up like questions, berries easily redden, edges delight in their own shapes (whoever their shaper). But here there is one season, our viridian Eden is that of the primal garden that engendered decay, from the seed of a beetle’s shard or a dead hare white and forgotten as winter with spring on its way. There is no change now, no cycles of spring, autumn, winter, nor an island’s perpetual summer; she took time with her; no climate, no calendar except for this bountiful day. As poor Tom fed his last crust to trembling birds, as by reeds and cold pools John Clare blest these thin musicians, let the ants teach me again with the long lines of words, my business and duty, the lesson you taught your sons, to write of the light’s bounty on familiar things that stand on the verge of translating themselves into news: the crab, the frigate that floats on cruciform wings, and that nailed and thorn riddled tree that opens its pews to the blackbird that hasn’t forgotten her because it sings.

Turn it over and look up into the sphere of heaven. The tracery is lucent, light seeping through to write, white-ink your face, upturned. Swing it below and it's a cradle of blue water, the sea, a womb. A mixing bowl for Babylonian gods. Here, they whirl up the cosmos. Pick it up and your hands form a pedestal, and all who drink contain the arcs of body and the universe— and between them, no imaginable tear or distance.

When I think of that room I see the de Kooning at the end of the hall Sometimes rain on the long windows Or the tinkering of drops on the skylight But not Yvon Splashing Scotch into a cocktail glass Otherwise fastidious— In retrospect I should have asked her more About the famous jazz guitarist She had been engaged to But that much was true— Even after she bought me a pocket knife Sheathed in velvet Every young man needs a knife She informed her group But in the restaurant her friends Eyed me like a turnip. One that talked— While she was away at her office, I tried to read Her unfinished essay On the vagaries of diplomacy Reclining On a rug of embroidered storks The two small Rodins Seemed misplaced A grand piano She didn’t play (though I did, affecting a controlled passion while gazing over rooftops at carefully maintained gardens)— I don’t remember her smell I don’t recall her fingers The last I heard she was living in Barcelona She never did learn to cook Now her letters are worth money

“To find a connectome, or the mental makeup of a person,” researchers experimented with the neurons of a worm then upgraded to mouse hoping “to unravel the millions of miles of wire in the [human] brain” that they liken to “untangling a bowl of spaghetti” of which I have an old photo: Rei in her high chair delicately picking out each strand to mash in her mouth. Was she two? Was that sailor dress from Mother? Did I cook from scratch? If so, there was a carrot in the sauce as Mother instructed and I’ll never forget since some strand determines infatuation as a daughter’s fate.

Like newlyweds, my parents slip out of their clothes. He puts aside the sweater I chose for him, she undoes her pearls. They rise up from their old ailments, their fears of falling, broken hips and other bad news. Now they dance barefoot in their living room, go bowling on a whim. They garden all day without pain, calling out like songbirds, come see the hollyhocks, they have grown so tall! Nights, they lie down like dolls and their sleepless eyes glide closed. They seem so eager for morning, I pray they will find each other again and again.

I tried one or two but they were stale and broke like sticks or crumbled when I rolled them and lighting a match was useless nor could I put them back in the refrigerator— it was too late for that—even licking them filled my mouth with ground-up outer leaf, product of Lancaster or eastern Virginia, so schooled I am with cigars, it comes in the blood, and I threw handfuls of them into the street from three floors up and, to my horror, sitting on my stoop were four or five street people who ran to catch them as if they were suddenly rich, and I apologize for that, no one should be degraded that way, my hands were crazy, and I ran down to explain but they were smoking already nor did I have anything to give them since we were living on beans ourselves, I sat and smoked too, and once in a while we looked up at the open window, and one of us spit into his empty can. We were visionaries.