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Nights, by the light of whatever would burn: tallow, tinder and the silken rope of wick that burns slow, slow we wove the baskets from the long gold strands of wheat that were another silk: worm soul spun the one, yellow seed in the dark soil, the other. The fields lay fallow, swollen with frost, expectant winter. Mud clung to the edges of our gowns; we had hung back like shadows on the walls of trees and watched. In the little circles that our tapers threw, murdered men rose red in their clanging armor, muttered words that bled through the bars of iron masks:the lord who sold us to the glory fields, lied.

Elizabeth Bishop leaned on a table, it cracked, both fell to the floor. A gesture gone sadly awry. This was close to fact and quickly became symbolic, bound to occur in Florida, where she was surrounded by rotting abundance and greedy insects. One moment a laughing smile, a graceful hand alighting on solid furniture, a casual shift of weight, the next, undignified splayed legs. The shell of the table proved to be stuffed with termite eggs. True, it was a fall from no great height— merely the height of herself, and although the hollowed-out table failed, at least the floor held, though probably infested by termites as well, and possibly built on a latent sinkhole, how can you tell? And how could she, smiling and easy, arm moving without forethought and permission, have forgotten fear, apparently let go of a hard-learned lesson? Enter a room as though it is strange. What you recognize may have changed, or may change without warning. Trees fall in hurricanes and on windless mornings, breaching houses where people you knew have vanished or died or stopped loving you.

Because the dark suit is worn it is worn warm with a black tie and a kiss at the head of the stairs When you hear the dark suit rip on the heart’s curb the hurt is big rose flesh caught on the orange woman’s buttons As you talk metropole monotone antique intelligence as you dress wounds by peyotl looming the boulevards women hunt their children from you who look out lit still inside of a dark suit

In Ocean's wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships, with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise. There the black Slave-ship swims, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered, fleshless limbs Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, "We are the Witnesses!" Within Earth's wide domains Are markets for men's lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare school-boys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, "We are the Witnesses!"

All this havoc just means I’m a poor wizard. Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke, from miles away, into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine. As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune. But not without aches of my own. Did the sack of no echoes fail me? Now, on such a mild curse— boils, sewn eyes, a shrew in the loin my ankle reddens up and eyes me with disdain. Toenails fall off. How far will this go? Poor wizard. Poorly done in. These pangs are power are power as both knees lock up ashamed to move under me.

for Gary Snyder “I think I’ll be the Buddha of this place” and sat himself down 1. It’s a real rock (believe this first) Resting on actual sand at the surf’s edge: Muir Beach, California (like everything else I have somebody showed it to me and I found it by myself) Hard common stone Size of the largest haystack It moves when hit by waves Actually shudders (even a good gust of wind will do it if you sit real still and keep your mouth shut) Notched to certain center it Yields and then comes back to it: Wobbly tons 2. Sitting here you look below to other rocks Precisely placed as rocks of Ryoanji: Foam like swept stones (the mind getting it all confused again: “snow like frosting on a cake” “rose so beautiful it don’t look real”) Isn’t there a clear example here Stone garden shown to me by Berkeley painter I never met A thousand books and somebody else’s boatride ROCKS (garden) EYE (nearly empty despite this clutter-image all the opposites cancelling out a CIRCULAR process:Frosting-snow) Or think of the monks who made it 4 hundred 50 years ago Lugged the boulders from the sea Swept to foam original gravelstone from sea (first saw it, even then, when finally they all looked up the instant AFTER it was made) And now all rocks are different and All the spaces in between (which includes about everything) The instant After it is made 3. I have been in many shapes before I attained congenial form All those years on the beach, lifetimes . . . When I was a boy I used to watch the Pelican: It always seemed his wings broke And he dropped, like scissors, in the sea . . . Night fire flicking the shale cliff Balls tight as a cat after the cold swim Her young snatch sandy . . . I have travelled I have made a circuit I have lived in 14 cities I have been a word in a book I have been a book originally Dychymig Dychymig:(riddle me a riddle) Waves and the sea. If you take away the sea Tell me what it is 4. Yesterday the weather was nice there were lots of people Today it rains, the only other figure is far up the beach (by the curve of his body I know he leans against the tug of his fishingline: there is no separation) Yesterday they gathered and broke gathered and broke like Feeding swallows dipped down to pick up something ran back to Show it And a young girl with jeans rolled to mid-thigh ran Splashing in the rain creek “They’re all so damned happy— why can’t they admit it?” Easy enough until a little rain shuts beaches down . . . Did it mean nothing to you Animal that turns this Planet to a smoky rock? Back among your quarrels How can I remind you of your gentleness? Jeans are washed Shells all lost or broken Driftwood sits in shadow boxes on a tracthouse wall Like swallows you were, gathering Like people I wish for . . . cannot even tell this to that fisherman 5. 3 of us in a boat the size of a bathtub   .   pitching in slow waves   .   fish poles over the side   .   oars We rounded a point of rock and entered a small cove Below us: fronds of kelp fish crustaceans eels Then us then rocks at the cliff’s base starfish (hundreds of them sunning themselves) final starfish on the highest rock then Cliff 4 feet up the cliff a flower grass further up more grass grass over the cliff’s edge branch of pine then Far up the sky a hawk Clutching to our chip we are jittering in a spectrum Hung in the film of this narrow band Green to our eyes only 6. On a trail not far from here Walking in meditation We entered a dark grove And I lost all separation in step with the Eucalyptus as the trail walked back beneath me Does it need to be that dark or is Darkness only its occasion Finding it by ourselves knowing Of course Somebody else was there before . . . I like playing that game Standing on a high rock looking way out over it all: “I think I’ll call it the Pacific” Wind water Wave rock Sea sand (there is no separation) Wind that wets my lips is salt Sea breaking within me balanced as the Sea that floods these rocks. Rock Returning to the sea, easily, as Sea once rose from it. It Is a sea rock (easily) I am Rocked by the sea

It was hardly war, the hardliest of wars. Hardly, hardly. It occurred to me that this particular war was hardly war because of kids, more kids, those poor kids. The kids were hungry until we GIs fed them. We dusted them with DDT. Hardly done. Reha- bilitation of Korea, that is. It needs chemical fertilizer from the States, power to build things like a country. In the end it was the hardliest of wars made up of bubble gum, which GIs had to show those kids how to chew. In no circumstance whatever can man be comfortable without art. They don’t want everlasting charity, and we are not giving it to them. We are just lending them a hand until they can stand on their own two feet. A novel idea. This is why it occurred to me that this particular war was hardly war, the hardliest of wars. My father was hardly himself during the war, then I was born during the era that hardly existed, and, therefore, I hardly existed without DDT. Beauty is pleasure re- garded as the quality of a thing. I prefer a paper closet with real paper dresses in it. To be born hardly, hardly after the hardliest of wars, is a matter of debate. Still going forward. We are, that is. Napalm again. This is THE BIG PICTURE. War and its masses. War and its men. War and its machines. Together we form THE BIG PIC- TURE. From Korea to Germany, from Alaska to Puerto Rico. All over the world, the US Army is on the alert to defend our country, you the people, against aggression. This is THE BIG PICTURE, an official television report to the nation from the army. This is Korea! Is one thing better than another? These South Koreans are all right. Woe is you, woe is war, hardly war, woe is me, woe are you? My father is still alive, and this is how I came to prefer a paper closet with real paper dresses in it. Well, it’s morning in Korea. The most violently mountainous place on Earth. Every- one has been dusted, existence hardly done, whereas beauty has been regarded as the quality of a thing. At Uncle Dann’s Huddle doughnuts and coffee are free and in case there are any, for there are many, the unescorted ladies are not permitted. The decision has been made in Tokyo for the hardliest of wars, an old soldier made it. The situation in Korea is so critical that we the Navy must give the Eighth Army prac- tical support. Do you remember how you began this day? How did you spend this morning? Woe are you? Well, pinecones fall every day. So why do we fail? Miles and miles of homeless refugees set adrift by the Red scourge.

—in borrowed language in honor and memory of Bill Ice Like a horse’s tail so thick, black down past his waist beautiful.    Wanyaka. Chemotherapy— white man’s man-made cancer . . . doesn’t distinguish between good or bad cells . . . just kills. The spirit is connected to the hair at the crown—pahin hocoka. The hair falls the spirit goes, the will is connected no more. Leukemia— cancer of the White Blood Cell. Lakota wicasa Oglala wica Ha Luta Oyate    wicozani sni Kuja, unsika Canku Wakan o mani ma wanagi o mani wasigla ceya wokiksuye wokiksuye wopilamaye miksuya Canku Luta o mani Canku Waste o mani wohitika iyomakpi, iyomakpi ake—anpetu anpetu waste I knew him well.

A wolf is at the Laundromat, it's not a wary stare-wolf, it's short and fat, it tips its hat, unlike a scary glare-wolf. It combs its hair, it clips its toes, it is a fairly rare wolf, that's only there to clean its clothes— it is a wash-and-wear-wolf.

Leave it to the street vendors of NYC to improvise a shrine from whatever they find, setting a place at their table for animal and divine nature symbolically joined with color-coded floral candelabras.