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They did the deed of darkness In their own mid-light. He plucked a gray field mouse Suddenly in the wind. The small dead fly alive Helplessly in his beak, His cold pride, helpless. All she receives is life. They are terrified. They touch. Life is too much. She flies away sorrowing. Sorrowing, she goes alone. Then her small falcon, gone. Will not rise here again. Smaller than she, he goes Claw beneath claw beneath Needles and leaning boughs, While she, the lovelier Of these brief differing two, Floats away sorrowing, Tall as my love for you, And almost lonelier. Delighted in the delighting, I love you in mid-air, I love myself the ground. The great wings sing nothing Lightly. Lightly fall.

You and your whole race. Look down upon the town in which you live And be ashamed. Look down upon white folks And upon yourselves And be ashamed That such supine poverty exists there, That such stupid ignorance breeds children there Behind such humble shelters of despair— That you yourselves have not the sense to care Nor the manhood to stand up and say I dare you to come one step nearer, evil world, With your hands of greed seeking to touch my throat, I dare you to come one step nearer me: When you can say that you will be free!

And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth’s noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night: To feel creep up the curving east The earthy chill of dusk and slow Upon those under lands the vast And ever climbing shadow grow And strange at Ecbatan the trees Take leaf by leaf the evening strange The flooding dark about their knees The mountains over Persia change And now at Kermanshah the gate Dark empty and the withered grass And through the twilight now the late Few travelers in the westward pass And Baghdad darken and the bridge Across the silent river gone And through Arabia the edge Of evening widen and steal on And deepen on Palmyra’s street The wheel rut in the ruined stone And Lebanon fade out and Crete High through the clouds and overblown And over Sicily the air Still flashing with the landward gulls And loom and slowly disappear The sails above the shadowy hulls And Spain go under and the shore Of Africa the gilded sand And evening vanish and no more The low pale light across that land Nor now the long light on the sea: And here face downward in the sun To feel how swift how secretly The shadow of the night comes on ...

You are afraid of the dark, for which you blame the raccoons, or more to the point, your father, who took you and your mother into the night with a flashlight and shotgun, then left with both, while you held her shaking hand. You would follow your father to the end of the world, those distant birch woods where raccoons rustle and flash their green eyes. His gun was firing into the persimmon trees and the rain of leaves and ripe fruit fell farther and farther, until only the crackle of his shots and the distant baying of the hounds could be heard. The raccoons came then to hiss all around: he left you, he left you, and now you are ours.

New Orleans, Louisiana For the drowning, yes, there is always panic. Or peace. Your body behaving finally by instinct alone. Crossing out wonder. Crossing out a need to know. You only feel you need to live. That you deserve it. Even here. Even as your chest fills with a strange new air, you will not ask what this means. Like prey caught in the wolf’s teeth, but you are not the lamb. You are what’s in the lamb that keeps it kicking. Let it.

I want to spend a lot but not all of my years with you. We’ll talk about kids but make plans to travel. I will remember your eyes as green when they were gray. Our dogs will be named For Now and Mostly. Sex will be good but next door’s will sound better. There will be small things. I will pick up your damp towel from the bed, and then I won’t. I won’t be as hot as I was when I wasn’t yours and your hairline now so untrustworthy. When we pull up alongside a cattle car and hear the frightened lows, I will silently judge you for not immediately renouncing meat. You will bring me wine and notice how much I drink. The garden you plant and I plant is tunneled through by voles, the vowels we speak aren’t vows, but there’s something holding me here, for now, like your eyes, which I suppose are brown, after all.

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great— Tho' every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand— Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South.

with the medicinal poppies of June nor with Celan’s bloom-fest of dredged stone, not with history’s choo-choo train of corpses, not with Nottingham’s Robin Hood nor Antwerp’s Diamondland. Not walking on the Strand in Manhattan Beach with her silicone breast implants, refinery, waves of trash, not out of the Library of Alexandria with her burnt gardens that prefigure gnarly, barnacle-laden surfboards broken in half. You can’t build the child with the stone paths that we have walked on through the atmosphere, the pirate’s plank, the diving board, the plunge, nor with the moon whether she be zombie or vampire. Not with Delphi, not with fangs, or cardamom bought in Fez, red with spring, red with marathon running cheeks. Not with monk chant, bomb chant, war paint, not with the gigantic Zen pleasure zones, nor with this harnessed pig on the carousel that I am sitting on with my son in Nice, France. How it burns on its axis as if it were turning into pineapple-colored kerosene the way the Hawaiian pig, apple in snout, roasts in its own tropical meat under the countdown sun.

You can't even buy a soda. You can only see these things, see a mother steer her son to the car, his head cocked licking his ice cream. Earlier, driving, trying to keep between two cornfields, I couldn't see myself into a map, couldn't be anywhere in it, though I knew all the patient states between us. Pigeons sit high on a mill's peaked roof, spaced even as beads. They can stand that close to each other, but looking at them you wouldn't know it. Would you.

Feathers fluffed the ashtray bin at the bottom of the elevator. Feathers and a smeared black look littered the parking lot like mascara. A cage would glide back and let them out to merge with the other cars on La Brea. It looked as if a struggle had ended in tears between the bird and an enemy. She broke through the fear to examine it. No chicken claws, or comb, no wing, no egg. The neutrality of words like “nothing” and “silence” vibrated at her back like plastic drapes. How could there be a word for silence? A child’s lips might blow, the North wind bring snow, a few stars explode, boats rock, but whatever moved in air did not by necessity move in ears and require the word “silence” therefore. She had personally sunk to a level where she could produce thought, and only “violence” remained a problem. It was common in her circle. A bush could turn into a fire, or a face at a clap of the hand could release spit and infection. The deviants were like herself unable to control their feelings. Los Angeles for them was only hostile as a real situation during the rainy season when torrents ripped down the sides of the canyons and overnight turned them sloshy. Then they hid in underground places, carrying Must the Morgue be my Only Shelter?? signs. But the rest of the time the sort of whiteness spread out by a Southland sun kept them warm, and they could shit whenever they wanted to, in those places they had long ago staked out. My personal angel is my maid, said one to another, putting down his Rilke with a gentle smile.