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The boy painted himself white and ran into the darkness. We let the words “he may be dead, bury him,” bury him. We took his clothes to the rummage sale in the basement of the mission We put his photographs and drawings in a birdcage and covered it with a starquilt. For four nights voices carried clear to the river. After winter so many storms moved in strangers came among us They danced They shoveled in the shadows of trees Then, somehow we all felt all of us were of this one boy.

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!— O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock! Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ... I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me— I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear As any challenged echo clear; But when she doth of mourning speak, Ev’n with her sighs the strings do break. And as her lute doth live or die, Let by her passion, so must I: For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring, But if she doth of sorrow speak, Ev’n from my heart the strings do break.

Where am I today? The dangers, all, with their appliance, hickishly gamey, pitchfork-high the heavensfallow hoisted, the losses, chalkmouthed—you upright mouths, you tables!— in the disangled town, harnessed to glimmerhackneys, —goldtrace, counterheaved goldtrace!—, the bridges, overjoyed by the stream, love, up there in the branch, niggling at the coming-escaping the Great Light elevated to a spark, on the right of the rings and all gain.

The self  refuses to appear in this bare place. It fears that mute chair and the still window. The sunlight scares it. There might rise up a sound. The door doesn’t like to move, and the crow out there hesitates; he knows a hole flown into by mistake would make a bite of   him. What was sits standstill in the chair, hangs, stunned, against the dry-eyed light. Nobody in sight. Inanimate things, still  lifeless. This room’s so empty I doubt I’m standing here; there can’t be room for me and total emptiness. Only some far-off sounds persist. The brute truck over the interstate. The flames in the incinerator chewing his old vests.

because I go like the professed sinner repentant to the altar of your baptismal flame I am saved despite your sculptor-love whose whimsy kneads and molds and fires then breaks the free-form of my fasting body to make me whole yet thankful I accept these carnal gifts of you Eros and wear them as I would flawless jewels (how can you know that I have bled the way and back biting the dust to wear your name?) . . . the wound lies not in your infliction but in my expectations . . .

One last time I unlock the house where they lived and fought and tried again: the air of the place, carpet with its unchanging green, chair with its back to me. On the TV set, the Christmas cactus has bloomed, has spilled its pink flowers down its scraggly arms and died, drying into paper. At the round oak table, ghosts lean toward one another, almost a bow, before rising, before ambling away.

I spent a night turning in bed, my love was a feather, a flat sleeping thing. She was very white and quiet, and above us on the roof, there was another woman I also loved, had addressed myself to in a fit she returned. That encompasses it. But now I was lonely, I yelled, but what is that? Ugh, she said, beside me, she put her hand on my back, for which act I think to say this wrongly.

The Republic lies in the blossoms of Washington. —Robert Bly White petals drop into the dark river. Heedless of political significance, they ride out to the sea like stars. I'm the space explorer. I travel to a planet where there are no plants or animals. Everyone lives in harmony. I don't want to go home. I'm the pioneer man and the pioneer woman, both at the same time. I build my house with my own hands, and it's beautiful, with simple, perfect lines. I'm the farmer waiting for the vegetables to grow, so I can eat. I'm the hunter aiming at the bear. I don't want to shoot it, but my family needs meat. The bear gives me a long dumb animal look. We'll use his skin for blankets, his fat to light our lamps. Our cabin will stink all night. I'm the cabin boy who graduates to captain. Shipboard sex is rough, but it suits my taste. I'm the man on the steps of the house where the President's widow lives. All night I wait for the stranger to get out of his car so I can flash my look of recognition. I'm the cowpoke who sleeps with his horses. I'm the man who loves dogs. I'm the cranky President sneaking away to swim in the Potomac. I'm the black man. I close my eyes and it gets dark inside. I feel the sun on my face. I see the light through my eyelids. It's bright, intelligent free of all cares. I'm the heir of a great American family. My success is guaranteed. Unexpected tragedy is all that can stop me. I'm the popular senator teaching his son to shave.

The obvious is difficult To prove. Many prefer The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret Which they were about to Make known to me, And then didn’t. Summer came. Each tree On my street had its own Scheherazade. My nights Were a part of their wild Storytelling. We were Entering dark houses, More and more dark houses Hushed and abandoned. There was someone with eyes closed On the upper floors. The thought of it, and the wonder, Kept me sleepless. The truth is bald and cold, Said the woman Who always wore white. She didn’t leave her room much. The sun pointed to one or two Things that had survived The long night intact, The simplest things, Difficult in their obviousness. They made no noise. It was the kind of day People describe as “perfect.” Gods disguising themselves As black hairpins? A hand-mirror? A comb with a tooth missing? No! That wasn’t it. Just things as they are, Unblinking, lying mute In that bright light, And the trees waiting for the night.