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He sits at the table, cloudlight of March One tone with his hair, gray-silver on silver. Midday fare in Vermont is basic enough. In West Newbury, eggs and toast will do— Though our doctor’s had his sips of wine as well. “Just don’t be fooled. They’re not as nice as you Think they are. Live here a few more winters, You’ll get to know them clearer, and vice-versa.” Three years now, and we’re still finding our way; Newcomers need a guide to show them the ropes, And he has been explaining township and county Almost from the sunstruck day we met him That very first July in this old house. “I’ll cite an instance of community Spirit at work, North Country justice— A case I just happened to be involved in. No, please—all right, if you are having one.” He holds his glass aloft and then lets fall A silence that has grown familiar to us From other stories told on other days, The will to recount building its head of steam. “Well, now, you have to know about the victim. His name was Charlie Deudon, no doubt Canuck Stock some generations back, but he Nor no one else could tell you—if they cared. Deudons had been dirt farmers here as long As anybody knew. They never starved But never had a dime to spare, either. Charlie resolved to change the Deudon luck. And that’s just what he did. Or almost did. . . . He’d graduated two classes ahead of mine; We knew each other, naturally, but not On terms of friendship. Fact is, he had no friends, And only one girlfriend, whom he married Day after Commencement, June of ‘32. And then he set to work and never stopped Again, until they made him stop for good.” A wisp of a smile, half irony, half Bereavement plays about his guileless face— Red cheeks, blue eyes, a beardless Santa Claus; Whose bag contains (apart from instruments Of healing) stories, parables and proverbs, Painkillers, too, for when all else fails. “What kind of work had all that hard work been?” “Oh, farming, like his elders, only better. All the modern improvements, fancy feed And fertilizers, plus machinery— He was the first in these parts to milk His herd in any way but as ‘twas done Since Adam’s boys first broke ground with a plow. And anything machines couldn’t handle, Charlie did himself, from dawn to midnight. He never wasted a word or spilled a drop Of milk or drank a drop of beer or liquor. He was unnatural. And he made that farm Into a showplace, a kind of 4-H model. He made good money, yes, but not a dollar Would he spend unnecessarily. Do you get the picture? They hated him, The boys that hung around the package store. The most they ever got from tightfist Charlie Deudon was a nod out from under his cap. (His trademark—a baseball cap striped white and red.) They envied him for getting his hay in first; And there was more. A boy that he had hired, By the name of Carroll Giddens, was their buddy. Likeable fellow, regulation issue, The sort that knocks back a pint or a fifth In half a shake and tells off-color stories Till he’s got them choked to death with laughing. ‘Course the wisecracks they loved best were those About poor Charlie and his gold-plated farm. . . . Just one more case of what’s been often said By commentators on democracy— How it helps everyone keep modest.” Teasing mischief has crept into his voice. A self-taught anthropologist as well As teller of tales, he has other frames Of reference to place around events Local or international. He knows That things can stand for more than what they are; Indeed, says standing for things is why we’re here, And quotes chapter and verse to prove his point. “Think of the worldwide scapegoat ritual. In halfway civilized societies An animal’s the one relieved from life Duty, am I right? A fellow tribesman Will do in a pinch, if animals are lacking, Or if communal fears get screwed too tight. . . . Anyhow, it was clear that something more Than common envy stirred up the lynch law. Their own failure’s what they wanted dead.” Seconds pass in silence as he stares At something—perhaps a knothole in the pine Floorboard. He looks up, eyebrows raised, And twirls the glass stem between stubby fingers. A coil of rope hung on the wall, we see, Has made him pause and heave experienced sighs. “Here. Have another. So: was Charlie punished?” “I’m going to tell you—better me than others. You see, I was involved—no, no, no, Not in the deed, Lord, no, just as a witness. It happened this way—hope you’re not squeamish. Charlie had this boy to help with chores, The one named Carroll. Married, two kids, I think. Not too reliable. But so few are; Nor could you call his wages generous. His buddies must have stood him drinks, is all I can say. He’d a skinful half the time— Was certainly drunk that Christmas Eve morning. No reason to doubt what Charlie told his wife. Charlie’d been up to help at six with the milking, And Carroll, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch, was there Loading a pair of milk cans into the barrow. He took a slip and the whole business spilled. Wooden handle clipped him in the side, And he fell, too, right in the puddle of milk. And started laughing . Charlie, you can guess, Didn’t join in; he told him to get on home. ‘What about the milk?’ ‘Go home,’ he said, ‘You’re drunk.’ ‘But what about the milk?’ asks Carroll. ‘Comes out of next week’s paycheck,’ Charlie says. And then the trouble starts, with Carroll swearing And yelping, till Charlie gives him a little tap And goes indoors. By then Carroll could tell The barrow handle had cracked a rib or two. He drove into town to see his doctor—that Wasn’t me—and word went out that Charlie Had roughed up his innocent assistant. That’s all they needed, Carroll’s friends. About Time that stuck-up bastard got his due, He’s gone too far this time, but we’ll show him,

The ancient songs Pass deathward mournfully. Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths, Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings— Symbols of ancient songs Mournfully passing Down to the great white surges, Watched of none         - - Save the frail sea-birds And the lithe pale girls, Daughters of Okeanos. And the songs pass From the green land Which lies upon the waves as a leaf On the flowers of hyacinth; And they pass from the waters, The manifold winds and the dim moon, And they come, Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk, To the quiet level lands That she keeps for us all, That she wrought for us all for sleep In the silver days of the earth's dawning— Proserpine, daughter of Zeus. And we turn from the Kuprian's breasts, And we turn from thee, Phoibos Apollon, And we turn from the music of old And the hills that we loved and the meads, And we turn from the fiery day, And the lips that were over-sweet; For silently Brushing the fields with red-shod feet, With purple robe Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame, Death, Thou hast come upon us. And of all the ancient songs Passing to the swallow-blue halls By the dark streams of Persephone, This only remains: That in the end we turn to thee, Death, That we turn to thee, singing One last song. O Death, Thou art an healing wind That blowest over white flowers A-tremble with dew; Thou art a wind flowing Over long leagues of lonely sea; Thou art the dusk and the fragrance; Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling; Thou art the pale peace of one Satiate with old desires; Thou art the silence of beauty, And we look no more for the morning; We yearn no more for the sun, Since with thy white hands, Death, Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets, The slim colorless poppies Which in thy garden alone Softly thou gatherest. And silently; And with slow feet approaching; And with bowed head and unlit eyes, We kneel before thee: And thou, leaning towards us, Caressingly layest upon us Flowers from thy thin cold hands, And, smiling as a chaste woman Knowing love in her heart, Thou sealest our eyes And the illimitable quietude Comes gently upon us.

Βροδοπαχεες αγναι Χαριτες, δεντε Λιος κοραι Ye rosy-armed, pure Graces, come, Daughters of Zeus, be near! Oh, wherefore have my lips been dumb So long in silence drear? And why have I so cheerless been, So sorrowful and wild? It was because ye were not seen, Because ye had not smiled. Although his prayer the Muses bless, The poet doth require That ye, in frolic gentleness, Should stand beside his lyre. Ne’er will he mortal ear delight, Nor care-vex’d spirit ease; Except he sing with ye in sight, Rose-flushed among the trees.

When the living rot on the bodies of the dead When the combatants’ teeth become knives When words lose their meaning and become arsenic When the aggressors’ nails become claws When old friends hurry to join the carnage When the victors’ eyes become live shells When clergymen pick up the hammer and crucify When officials open the door to the enemy When the mountain peoples’ feet weigh like elephants When roses grow only in cemeteries When they eat the Palestinian’s liver before he’s even dead When the sun itself has no other purpose than being a shroud the human tide moves on . . .

Yea, gold is son of Zeus: no rust Its timeless light can stain; The worm that brings man's flesh to dust Assaults its strength in vain: More gold than gold the love I sing, A hard, inviolable thing. Men say the passions should grow old With waning years; my heart Is incorruptible as gold, 'Tis my immortal part: Nor is there any god can lay On love the finger of decay.

In the dark irritation of the eyes there is a snake hiding In the exhalations of Americans there is a crumbling empire In the foul waters of the rivers there are Palestinians OUT OUT of its borders pain has a leash on its neck In the wheat stalks there are insects vaccinated against bread In the Arabian boats there are sharks shaken with laughter In the camel’s belly there are blind highways OUT OUT of TIME there is spring’s shattered hope In the deluge on our plains there are no rains but stones

When I was “in despair” (the dark days when I actually used such terms) I noticed the behavior of animals — sleep when tired, eat when hungry That made a lot of sense to me and yet I felt different I felt my humanness too much No fly ever wonders whether it should make lots and lots of maggots It gives birth on a mound of cat food or inside the rubbish bin As far as I know it’s not worried about overpopulation or what sort of environment its kids will grow up in My humanness sees me at an art gallery watching others watching walls My humanness gives me dark thoughts of cruel behavior You are in the States a visa glitch and there you remain Like Star Trek, I talk to you on a screen your face half a second out of sync with your speech I’m in the future my Tuesday is already over and I want to tell you all about it to prove my superiority That lovely conceit of time that saw people travel from all over the world to be in Gisborne for the first sunrise of the new millennium Remember how we all thought the sewer pipes would burst and the criminals would escape or something like that Y2K packs sent to every household because no one knew for certain what the numbers 2000 really meant Somewhere, people, important people cowered in bunkers fearing the worst

Yael picks at their cuticles. When they speak to themself, they speak out loud. They speak to themself this morning.I think, they say,that I am coming down with wisteria. Their nail beds a bit purplish. There’s a Caesar cipher decoder ring in their shredded wheat and, unsure of what to decode first, Yael hides it under their pillow. Yael says,Today I’ll be lonely. They need the practice. Yael never drinks their cereal milk, pours it back into the jug. But they are thirsty. Outside of their tent, the lawn is still entirely a lawn — the neighbors kept to themselves last night, trampled none of the daffodils. A good omen. Today Yael can leave their tent without fear. Of what? The omen has no answer, it presents only the bright of things. Yael shoves three empty bottles into their bag and heads toward the river. • The pigs are having a swim and pay Yael no mind as they submerge each bottle. Yael imagines the bubbles that shimmy out are the 
bottle’s breath, that they have the power to take breath from anyone. The hair on their arms turns golden. Then the water. Then the pigs flee. Yael looks down as Sun approaches. They were already kneeling. 
Their shins disrupting the path of an ant colony’s leaf-carrying 
ceremony. The ants do not bite Yael — Sun is watching, and the ants like being alive, love to feel the weight of a veiny leaf, love even more the sound their mandibles make piercing through that leaf. Sun kicks a flowering fennel as He walks toward Yael, but forgets to change the wind’s direction. The seeds blow into Yael’s hair and up their nose. Though Yael did not see Him do it, Sun gives himself away by whining,It’s not my fault. • Sun’s whine reminds Yael of their husband, Heber. Heber whines like that when Yael wants to leave his tent. When Yael doesn’t invite him into their tent. When Yael doesn’t want to watch a movie that Heber has seen a dozen times. It’s exhausting to be shown things, to try to enjoy a movie while also giving a convincing performance of that enjoyment. Heber ruins these screenings — he weeps before the scenes that call for weeping. He mouths each pivotal line. So far, Yael has spent their life absorbing men’s favorites. On the rare occasion that Heber does ask to watch their favorite movie, Yael can’t remember having one. This makes Yael feel a creaking, hollow-boned kind of gloom. This gloom opens the flaps in their brain that make them want to lie in bed all day. Yael does not know the sound of their loudest yell. All their noises 
have been practiced. Maybe this is why Sun’s whine makes their cheeks flush. The sound is a selfish one. Why should it go unpunished? • Sometimes, when they think of Heber away at war, Yael grows giddy, 
presses their smile hard into their pillow until the whirling joy 
subsides. But what is the mainspring of that giddiness? They try to dissect the thought: Heber = Giddy Or Heber away = Giddy Or Heber away at war = Giddy • If Yael were to look up from the dirt, they’d see the kestrels circling above, their left talons leashed to Sun’s wrist by neon green fishing line. Taut line. No give. Yael won’t look up. Sun exhales and lets loose His belly. It peeks out from under His shirt.You can keep thinking of me as Sun. He’s relieved Yael is alone.I’ve been looking for a new name. His old name felt stale. Dead by comparison.Sun is perfect. I have a very important job for you, Yael, descendant of— He’d left His notes at home —Yael. Enlist in my war against the wicked and blessed shall you be above all people in the tent. Sun doesn’t mention that Yael isn’t His first, or even His second, choice.

As a friend to the children commend me the Yak. You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string. The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know! Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich He will buy you the creature—or else he will not. (I cannot be positive which.)

"There is no object so foul that intense light will not make beautiful." —  Emerson, Nature The renters bring out their greasy table, End of the month again: It sags, Weighted and warped like them, unable To hold much more than glasses and rags. Old clothes and rusty tools compete For space with magazines they stole From garbage bins behind our street; Each shoe reveals a run-down sole. A few come by, inspect, and leave, Almost always with empty hands. But when, at sundown, all things cleave To slanted light, and when it lands So rubber, glass, and metal glint— And for a moment make you squint— You'll see our neighbors bathed in gold As if their worth cannot be sold.