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Be strong Bernadette Nobody will ever know I came here for a reason Perhaps there is a life here Of not being afraid of your own heart beating Do not be afraid of your own heart beating Look at very small things with your eyes & stay warm Nothing outside can cure you but everything's outside There is great shame for the world in knowing You may have gone this far Perhaps this is why you love the presence of other people so much Perhaps this is why you wait so impatiently You have nothing more to teach Until there is no more panic at the knowledge of your own real existence & then only special childish laughter to be shown & no more lies no more Not to find you no More coming back & more returning Southern journey Small things & not my own debris Something to fight against & we are all very fluent about ourselves Our own ideas of food, a Wild sauce There's not much point in its being over: but we do not speak them: I had written: "the man who sewed his soles back on his feet" And then I panicked most at the sound of what the wind could do to me if I crawled back to the house, two feet give no position, if the branches cracked over my head & their threatening me, if I covered my face with beer & sweated till you returned If I suffered what else could I do

From an epigram by Plato When I was a boy, a relative Asked for me a job At the Weeks Cemetery. Think of all I could Have raised that summer, That money, and me Living at home, Fattening and getting Ready to live my life Out on my knees, humming, Kneading up docks And sumac from Those flawless clerks-at-court, those beautiful Grocers and judges, the polished Dead of whom we make So much. I could have stayed there with them. Cheap, too. Imagine, never To have turned Wholly away from the classic Cold, the hill, so laid Out, measure by seemly measure clipped And mown by old man Albright The sexton. That would have been a hell of A way to make a living. Thank you, no. I am going to take my last nourishment Of measure from a dark blue Ripple on swell on ripple that makes Its own garlands. My dead are the secret wine jars Of Tyrian commercial travelers. Their happiness is a lost beginning, their graves Drift in and out of the Mediterranean. One of these days The immortals, clinging to a beam of sunlight Under water, delighted by delicate crustaceans, Will dance up thirty-foot walls of radiance, And waken, The sea shining on their shoulders, the fresh Wine in their arms. Their ships have drifted away. They are stars and snowflakes floating down Into your hands, love.

The way to the river leads past the names of Ash the sleeves the wreaths of hinges Through the song of the bandage vendor I lay your name by my voice As I go The way to the river leads past the late Doors and the games of the children born looking backwards They play that they are broken glass The numbers wait in the halls and the clouds Call From windows They play that they are old they are putting the horizon Into baskets they are escaping they are Hiding I step over the sleepers the fires the calendars My voice turns to you I go past the juggler’s condemned building the hollow Windows gallery Of invisible presidents the same motion in them all In a parked cab by the sealed wall the hats are playing Sort of poker with somebody’s Old snapshots game I don’t understand they lose The rivers one After the other I begin to know where I am I am home Be here the flies from the house of the mapmaker Walk on our letters I can tell And the days hang medals between us I have lit our room with a glove of yours be Here I turn To your name and the hour remembers Its one word Now Be here what can we Do for the dead the footsteps full of money I offer you what I have my Poverty To the city of wires I have brought home a handful Of water I walk slowly In front of me they are building the empty Ages I see them reflected not for long Be here I am no longer ashamed of time it is too brief its hands Have no names I have passed it I know Oh Necessity you with the face you with All the faces

when the cultivators of corpses are busy seeding plague across vast acres of the land, choking schools and churches in the motley toxins of grief, breeding virile shoots of violence so soon verdant even fools fear to tread in their wake :: when all known tools of resistance are clutched in the hands of the vile like a wilting bouquet, cut from their roots, while the disempowered slice smiles across their own faces and hide the wet knives in writhing thickets of hair for future use :: when breathing in the ashen traces of dreams deferred, the detonator’s ticking a queer echo that amplifies instead of fading :: when there- you-are is where-you-were and the sunset groans into the atlantic, setting blue fire to dark white bones.

So many years later, the old dog still circles, head lowered, crippled by arthritis, nearly blind, incontinent. We repeat the litany, as if we need convincing that the end is right. I'll get her an ice cream cone if you'll drive her to the vet, my wife says. So there we sit on the front steps with our friend, and in the car, as always, when she senses the doctor's office drawing near, she moans and tries to burrow underneath the seats. What remains, the memory of how she taught us all the way we need to learn to live with wasting. There we sit, together, one last time as all that sweetness slowly disappears.

But you made every delicate, elegant wrist & glistening ankle. But you made them beautiful in braided rope & dime store gold. But you made every necklace clasp. But you made them caress the nape like an errant wind after a shower. But you made every eyelash erotic. Every single strand of hair soft. But you made them from dust & bone. Made every glorious singing thigh. Every button nose. But you made them with holes— wide open to the faintest hints of salt in a sea breeze, salt in the sweaty mouth of a navel, salt in the blood, sweet in every wrong way.

I see into them as they see out of me & dissolve the wattage to avoid future legends young pharaohs on Fillmore cracking dutches it is a lonely frontier by contrast forgotten game skulking around big hearts, small temper thine absence overflows thine presence undoes do not attempt to circle the inferno a tremor in the throne is a tremor in the throne

Who needs to be at peace in the world? It helps to be between wars, to die a  few  times  each day to understand your father's sky, as you take it apart piece  by  piece  and can't feel  anything,  can't  feel the tree growing under your feet, the eyes poking night only to find another night to compare it to. Whoever   heard   of   turning   pain   into   hummingbirds   or   red  birds— haven't  we  grown?  What  does  it mean to be older?  Maybe a house with- out  doors  can  still  survive  a  storm. Maybe I can't find the proper way to rebel  or  damn it,  I can't  leave.  I want to,  but you grow inside of me. And as  I  watch   you,  before  I  know  it,  I'm  too  heavy,  too full  of  you  to  move. Maybe  that's what they meant when they said you shouldn't love a country too much.

We used to like talking about grief Our journals and letters were packed with losses, complaints, and sorrows. Even if there was no grief we wouldn’t stop lamenting as though longing for the charm of a distressed face. Then we couldn’t help expressing grief So many things descended without warning: labor wasted, loves lost, houses gone, marriages broken, friends estranged, ambitions worn away by immediate needs. Words lined up in our throats for a good whining. Grief seemed like an endless river— the only immortal flow of life. After losing a land and then giving up a tongue, we stopped talking of grief Smiles began to brighten our faces. We laugh a lot, at our own mess. Things become beautiful, even hailstones in the strawberry fields.

We are not responsible for your lost or stolen relatives. We cannot guarantee your safety if you disobey our instructions. We do not endorse the causes or claims of people begging for handouts. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Your ticket does not guarantee that we will honor your reservations. In order to facilitate our procedures, please limit your carrying on. Before taking off, please extinguish all smoldering resentments. If you cannot understand English, you will be moved out of the way. In the event of a loss, you’d better look out for yourself. Your insurance was cancelled because we can no longer handle your frightful claims. Our handlers lost your luggage and we are unable to find the key to your legal case. You were detained for interrogation because you fit the profile. You are not presumed to be innocent if the police have reason to suspect you are carrying a concealed wallet. It’s not our fault you were born wearing a gang color. It is not our obligation to inform you of your rights. Step aside, please, while our officer inspects your bad attitude. You have no rights we are bound to respect. Please remain calm, or we can’t be held responsible for what happens to you.