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Someone else’s child, not you, is running and running down the beach. Both feet dig into the burning sand. Two others heave one yellow bucket full of sugar-brown seaweed, their twin suits flowering a conflation of pink over blue behind the water. So landmark cactus and landmine rock battlefield uphill toward the early moon’s white horse head and each wave collapses to your right, unsettles, shouting every half minute:have me, shhhh, have me, shhhh, halve me, shhhh

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

Whispering to each handhold, “I'll be back,” I go up the cliff in the dark. One place I loosen a rock and listen a long time till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind— I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . . I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble by luck into a little pocket out of the wind and begin to beat on the stones with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth in silent laughter there in the dark— “Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb! —the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight as your muscles crack and ease on, working right. They are back there, discontent, waiting to be driven forth. I pound on the earth, riding the earth past the stars: “Made it again! Made it again!”

only the manners of centuries ago can teach me how to address you my lover as who you are O Sestius, how could you put up with my children thinking all the while you were bearing me as in your mirror it doesn't matter anymore if spring wreaks its fiery or lamblike dawn on my new-found asceticism, some joke I wouldn't sleep with you or any man if you paid me and most of you poets don't have the cash anyway so please rejoin your fraternal books forever while you miss in your securest sleep Ms. Rosy-fingered dawn who might've been induced to digitalize a part of you were it not for your self-induced revenge of undoneness it's good to live without a refrigerator! why bother to chill the handiwork of Ceres and of Demeter? and of the lonesome Sappho. let's have it warm for now.

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold.

Somewhere Zeno was smiling, the foul goblins of paradox were wearing their fairest clothes that night. My Dinner with a Chainsaw, the evening could have been called; and when one too many led to wise judgements too few, “I’m trying to break up with you!” he shouted as stockings and scruples flew; and what was over wasn’t; the brutal doings were sweeter than a caress; the thrill of it happening and the horror of it being an awful mistake collided like sweaty bodies in the dark, disheveled room. So this is moving on, she reflected after he left. But what was motion? No straight bright line but a wind every bit as stormy as the people it carried away from safety, through towns that froze and burned, helping them forward but not letting them forget for a second their ceaseless looking for what is lost, their sad resemblance to the quick and stubborn arrows that never arrive.

After experience taught me that all the ordinary Surroundings of social life are futile and vain; I’m going to show you something very Ugly: someday, it might save your life. Seeing that none of the things I feared contain In themselves anything either good or bad What if you get caught without a knife; Nothing—even a loop of piano wire; Excepting only in the effect they had Upon my mind, I resolved to inquire Take the first two fingers of this hand; Fork them out—kind of a “V for Victory”— Whether there might be something whose discovery Would grant me supreme, unending happiness. And jam them into the eyes of your enemy. You have to do this hard. Very hard. Then press No virtue can be thought to have priority Over this endeavor to preserve one’s being. Both fingers down around the cheekbone And setting your foot high into the chest No man can desire to act rightly, to be blessed, To live rightly, without simultaneously You must call up every strength you own And you can rip off the whole facial mask. Wishing to be, to act, to live. He must ask First, in other words, to actually exist. And you, whiner, who wastes your time Dawdling over the remorseless earth, What evil, what unspeakable crime Have you made your life worth?

Her house is empty and her heart is old, And filled with shades and echoes that deceive No one save her, for still she tries to weave With blind bent fingers, nets that cannot hold. Once all men’s arms rose up to her, ‘tis told, And hovered like white birds for her caress: A crown she could have had to bind each tress Of hair, and her sweet arms the Witches’ Gold. Her mirrors know her witnesses, for there She rose in dreams from other dreams that lent Her softness as she stood, crowned with soft hair. And with his bound heart and his young eyes bent And blind, he feels her presence like shed scent, Holding him body and life within its snare.

Your paperwork in, it’s like the morning after a party, the shaken survey of damage, a waste of bottles where there was laughter. It all seems so much more than you can manage: the accusing cups and stubbed-out cigarettes, the sun assaulting the window, your throbbing head. It’s not enough to face your own regrets (though they’re coming back fast, the things you said) because someone’s trailed bean dip across the table, someone’s ground salsa in the rug with his shoe. So you start to clean, as much as you are able, and think how far those hours have fled from you, before the hangover and your sour tongue, when you felt lovely, and infinite, and young.

He comes here by whatever way he can, not too late, not too soon. He sits, waiting. He doesn’t know why he should have such a patience. He sits at a table on a chair. He is comfortable sitting there. No one else in this room, no others, no expectations, no sounds. Had he walked another way, would he be here, like they say.