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For the young man who would have myrrh from a woman, and cinnamon and aloes, smoother than oil is her mouth. She flatters him with it. Between her lips lies death. The young man learns that as his bride he should instead have taken Wisdom to him. Wisdom is the words that figure her as fear of the Lord. She has seen Israel choose the ways of the oppressor. The young men Strangeness would claim She instructs. Wisdom pleads with them at the city gates that when pride comes, then comes shame. Let a man meet rather with a bear and her whelps than with folly. Withhold not good from those to whom it is due. The Lord’s eyes are on every place, as on Hell and destruction. Whose order was it that made the ends of the earth? Who put clothes on the deep? What is his name, and what is his son’s name, if you can tell? Wisdom can. Still a child, she attended God when God had not yet divided the waters. It was no one but God’s to do to divide what isn’t said from what is. If God was male already, Wisdom was not male. (It may have been Wisdom’s difference from God that let God speak good into being.) Wisdom was God’s delight. She was with him over the waters. The still unformed deep would have lasted had God not given it form. It made God tremble that His call for it to be light there would not let night touch day. (There had to be room between them or they couldn’t be what God said they were.) God and Wisdom were two. Day and night were two also. Day gave it to be seen at once that down was and up. The deep had a face. God’s breath hovered over it until there was wind there instead. The wind is in force in many places over the earth’s dry land. Its going on like that is so it too can have extension and still not be seen. A door woke me. It was having to open and then flap shut against the stable’s north wall. some thuds were back-to-back. After others, there’d be a minute or more of only the wind. The wind had become something the trees had had between them for days now. They’d showed to their tops that they’d be moved only so much. At the same time that it was many trees, the night wind I was hearing them in was one. (One has to be the number God has against the too-many-to-count.) If it had a back to it in those places how far north where right then it was quiet, the wind’s broad front was as high as just below God. (That’s where God starts to be a different nothing than wind.) If nothing’s around the wind to any of its sides, Wisdom confides that God’s around all. Inside all God holds, Wisdom’s at the work of meaning for the faithful that there’s good to be had, if God’s heeded. I wanted to be asleep so I wouldn’t go on making God up out of the wind.

One day there passed by a company of cats a wise dog. And as he came near and saw that they were very intent and heeded him not, he stopped. Then there arose in the midst of the company a large, grave cat and looked upon them and said, “Brethren, pray ye; and when ye have prayed again and yet again, nothing doubting, verily then it shall rain mice.” And when the dog heard this he laughed in his heart and turned from them saying, “O blind and foolish cats, has it not been written and have I not known and my fathers before me, that that which raineth for prayer and faith and supplication is not mice but bones.”

Once there ruled in the distant city of Wirani a king who was both mighty and wise.  And he was feared for his might and loved for his wisdom. Now, in the heart of that city was a well, whose water was cool and crystalline, from which all the inhabitants drank, even the king and his courtiers; for there was no other well. One night when all were asleep, a witch entered the city, and poured seven drops of strange liquid into the well, and said, “From this hour he who drinks this water shall become mad.” Next morning all the inhabitants, save the king and his lord chamberlain, drank from the well and became mad, even as the witch had foretold. And during that day the people in the narrow streets and in the market places did naught but whisper to one another, “The king is mad.  Our king and his lord chamberlain have lost their reason. Surely we cannot be ruled by a mad king.  We must dethrone him.” That evening the king ordered a golden goblet to be filled from the well.  And when it was brought to him he drank deeply, and gave it to his lord chamberlain to drink. And there was great rejoicing in that distant city of Wirani, because its king and its lord chamberlain had regained their reason.

Tune yr sandwich to the key of C Make biscuits in kitchen B Miss Scarlet with her lead pipe Waits behind the cupboard door Clubs one from the other limp Only to begin again innocent & nothing to do but gather into Legion gather into constellation Coming along then a spider its web Holds the walls together holds the floor Up gathers toward a central point Mean & distribution derivation To insert a thumb & see what sticks Past the earth’s crust cirrus And acidic enough to spoon fork but Chew & eat & swallow digesting the fact That nine wonders hope the clouds have Answers hope the clouds have

I wanted to give you something for your pain. But not the drug du jour or the kind word this side of cliché. Something you wouldn’t find on a talk show, in a department store or dark alleyway. I wanted to give you something for your pain but I couldn’t imagine what. Frankincense, myrrh—even gold seemed too plain (too plain and too gross). I needed something that wouldn’t have occurred to you or me, or even Nature: a creature more fabulous, more imaginary than you’d find in a rain forest or tapestry or pixel-loaded screen. Some exotic anodyne an alchemist or astrophysicist would be envious of: a chemical reaction, an astral refraction, an out-of-body, out-of-mind, one-of-a-kind transport from your pain, that would last longer than a day, go deeper than the past. I would have founded a whole new religion if I thought that would suffice. As for love—sacred, profane, or both— I wanted to give you something that didn’t arrive with a roll of the dice and was hard to maintain and had a knack for disappointing. I wanted to give you something for your pain that didn’t smack of a sorcerer’s trick, or a poet’s swoon, or a psychiatrist’s quip. Nothing too heavy or spacey or glib. I’d have given you the moon but it’s been done (and besides, its desolate dust and relentless tendency to wane might have only exacerbated your pain). If I could have given you something you could depend on, could always trust without a second thought, I would have. A splendid view, perhaps, or a strain of music. A favorite dish. A familiar tree. A visit from a genie who, in lieu of granting you a wish, would tend subtly to your every need, and never once tire, never complain. But when all was said and done (or hardly said, not nearly done) I was as helpless as you. Could you tell— or were you so overcome your pain was all that mattered? It seemed to me we were a kind of kin: willing the mind its bold suspensions, but the heart, once shattered, never quite matching its old dimensions. And yet you persevered in spite of pain, you knew to hold hope as lightly as you held my hand (a phantom grasp, a clasp that seemed to come from the other side). And your genial smile made it plain: you were pleased by my wish to please. And then you died.

I ask not wit, nor beauty do I crave, Nor wealth, nor pompous titles wish to have; But since, 'tis doomed through all degrees of life, Whether a daughter, sister, or a wife; That females should the stronger males obey, And yield implicit to their lordly sway; Since this, I say, is ev'ry woman's fate, Give me a mind to suit my slavish state.

Oh! had I now an overcoat, For I am nearly freezing; My head and lungs are stopped with cold, And often I am sneezing. And, too, while passing through the street, Where merchants all are greeting, They say, young man this is the coat That you should wear to meeting. Then, looking down upon my feet, For there my boots are bursting, With upturned heels and grinning toes, With tacks which long were rusting. Ah! how they view my doeskin pants With long and crooked stitches, They say, young man would you not like To have some other breeches? My head is also hatless too, The wind is swiftly blowing, They say, young man will you not freeze? See ye not how it’s snowing? And now they take me by the hand, And lead me toward the store, And some are pulling down the coats Before I reach the door. So walk I in, their goods to price, To quench a thirst that’s burning, And freely would I buy a coat, But nothing I am earning. They say to me, I should have known, That winter time was coming, When I was roaming through the park, With birds around me humming. Their logic’s true, I must confess, And all they say is pleasant; But did I know that I would have No overcoat at present? To satisfy these craving Jews, To buy I am not able, For it is more than I can do To meet my wants at table. Therefore my skin will toughly grow, Will grant to me this favor, That I may learn to stand as much As little Jack, the sailor. And if I live till winter’s passed, Though nature’s harps unstringing, I then will fly to yon woodland To hear the oak trees singing. Then I will not on hero’s fame, Ride swiftly on to victory, Although my saddle may be made Of cotton sacks or hickory. But if I die, farewell to all, Oh! who will tell the story, That I have lived a noble life. And now gone home to glory? Yes, who will chant a song of praise For me—who will be weeping— When I have yielded to the grave, And ’mid the dead am sleeping? But some will ask, “how did he die? It was without my knowing; Was it because he caught a cold, Last year when it was snowing?” The answer now comes hurling back, In words I cannot utter, It was not by a cold alone, But partly bread and butter.

Would but indulgent Fortune send To me a kind, and faithful Friend, One who to Virtue’s Laws is true, And does her nicest Rules pursue; One Pious, Lib’ral, Just and Brave, And to his Passions not a Slave; Who full of Honour, void of Pride, Will freely praise, and freely chide; But not indulge the smallest Fault, Nor entertain one slighting Thought: Who still the same will ever prove, Will still instruct and still will love: In whom I safely may confide, And with him all my Cares divide: Who has a large capacious Mind, Join’d with a Knowledge unconfin’d: A Reason bright, a Judgement true, A Wit both quick, and solid too: Who can of all things talk with Ease, And whose Converse will ever please: Who charm’d with Wit, and inward Graces, Despises Fools with tempting Faces; And still a beauteous Mind does prize Above the most enchanting Eyes: I would not envy Queens their State, Nor once desire a happier Fate.

i wish them cramps. i wish them a strange town and the last tampon. i wish them no 7-11. i wish them one week early and wearing a white skirt. i wish them one week late. later i wish them hot flashes and clots like you wouldn't believe. let the flashes come when they meet someone special. let the clots come when they want to. let them think they have accepted arrogance in the universe, then bring them to gynecologists not unlike themselves.

Who e’er she be That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Wher e’er she lie, Lock’d up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny; Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine; Meet you her, my wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call’d my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty. Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest. A face made up Out of no other shop Than what nature’s white hand sets ope. A cheek where youth, And blood, with pen of truth Write, what the reader sweetly ru’th. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips, where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes, that displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine, by their own sweet graces. Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems, that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tam’d heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and flight As the coy bride’s when night First does the longing lover right. Tears, quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forespent night of sorrow. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers’ play, Yet long by th’ absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes say, “Welcome friend.” Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, ’Bove all, nothing within that lours. Whate’er delight Can make Day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish, her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes, and I wish—no more. Now if time knows That her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows, Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she. ’Tis she, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character. May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions; but her story.