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although my father although my mother although we rarely although we whispered although the silence although the absence although even now some TV books not to mention radio websites new militias hate groups raging against our socialist- communist-fascist although but still: our textbooks now our museums mostly our college literature courses even our crayons not to mention our young president who could scarcely have been imagined when we when I— and although I've gone back and filled in some blanks I'm still learning this un- learning untying the knot of Yes but re- writing this Yes Yes

“Flowery mantle.” “Homeric sacrifice?” “noise of darkness” “fear of darkness” “now mantle of innocence” “King of his death now” “Home” “I’ve come home” “He said, ‘I’ve come home’” “They were sacrificed for nothing, for distant” “instants of thought” “All for your thinking” “He said, ‘I’ve come home; I've finally come home’ then he died” “flowers” “Magnolias & lilies” “innocent now” “I’ve come home. Who’s there? at home? all the dead?” “To come home from the war” “years after” “To die” “To wear mantle light honey” “mantle dead white” “in sunlight, in late” “Homeric?” “he said it was hideous” “all of it” “hideous” “every instant in Nam” “theatre of worsts” “now mantle of white” “phosphorous & lilies?” “trees now lean down” “over our faces” “Tell details of battle?” “As” “in an epic?” “As” “in lies?” “We don’t want that now” “We want only our mother of dirt” “our mantle of white” “want each other of soul; and” “we want” “our mother of spirit” (“rich sweet in dirt”) “we want” “our father” “of leaves” “We want our fate fragmented to air for our children to breathe;” “light on water for widows to think near” “moonlight on water to ease you” “we want no poet, we want our homes in the earth” “that’s all we can have” “want no place in history or poetry” “want our wanderings our sorrows, after the war not remembered,” “we want not to pain her” “we want our love mingled” “with yours” “no place in history” “only in love” “remove us from history,” “All of us sacrificed” “all for a thought” “They played with our souls.” “Used our souls to fight, be their willfulness” “willfulness” “we were made their willfulness,” “nothing but that—” “And you too, you yielded, one way or another” “to their will.” “They” “who are the subject” “of all history” “& of poems” “as if” “we have ever, in all ways” “yielded to them” “by speaking of” “always speaking of” “Kings” “presidents” “the Great Men” “their mistresses” “Generals” “Communist Kings” “Leaders” “Warriors” “West Point of Greeks” “West Point of Greeks against” “West Point of Trojans” “Isn’t it more beautiful, under the Earth?” “Or to be sunlight, not history?” “Now I can love, & only” “now” “Remove us from history but not from your air” “History is willfulness” “is” “precious parts” “History’s for those” “who ask not” “to be forgiven” “We ask to be forgiven” “& loved” “No, we ask” “to be absolved” “And to be” “elemental” “ask leaves & wind” “Ask leaves bending down towards our faces” “Ask light & dirt” “we ask” “our children” “we ask our wives” “Ask that they live” “We ask to be” “with the ones that we killed” “To history” “saying nothing” “being that” (“nothing”) “& to history” “having been” “nothing.” * “In this moment” “before” “anyone, ever” “died” “before we were born?” “in this moment forever before” “before we went to a war” “Before we died” “In this moment, now” “In this moment before, it is not before” “In this very moment” “where is it” “where we haven’t died” “or died inside” “In this moment we haven’t” “in this moment, no one” “in this moment, no one has ever, died” (“But I have been born”) “in this moment” “where, where is it” “in moment” “who’s here” “Catch it catch it” “moment where we are” “merely as it is autonomous,” “autonomous moment” “Without a war” “without a guilt,” “Can we exist” “Outside of what was?” “in the air of our thoughtless, female, moment” “the air of our moment” “not grievous not iron” “moment, not air” “but air of our moment” (“woman-made?”) “faithful, faithful & boundless” “reticent & light” “fond, & kindly” “not reticent but shiny,” “morning-starry, not bloody” “not bloody, in the morning” “in the star” “it is a star” “it is autonomous” “star & it’s mild” “Is it a little” “of us” “from before” “we were born?” (“that was never”) (“I know”) “It is now” “autonomous” “moment of white,” “white flowers, stars & white flowers,” “not before we were born, in this moment of our childhood” “have we our childhood” “in this moment he has his childhood, I think, it is center of” “moment, of childhood” “center of, moment” “wings of his pigeons” “white & grey wings” “moment a feathery” “center of senses” “center of sensation, is this moment” “Center, as sensation falls away” “He has his love” “this moment” “forever” “center of brown eyes” “seen through his eyes” “Only through” “the eyes” “the real eyes” “of the dead” “this moment” “through his eyes” “as child, as childhood” “Only through” “the personality” “can this be” “of the dead” “the lovely person” “holding” “this moment” “this moment in place” “this moment forever” “center of sensation” “Soldiers, we are center” “of the morning” “we are moment” “we are dearest” “we are heart” “Soldiers,” “we are pleasing” “we are center” “we are moment” “are not soldiers” “never soldiers” “never were.” * “Mask now” “is complies” “complies” “with the forms (too much of everything, everywhere”) “All of this is” “the mask” “my mother’s mask” “& mine” “wronglike forms, too many of” “Complying, to live here” “always, more complying” “Too many things” “machines” “too many” “too many clothes” “cheap roses” “kleenexes” “membranous” “bags, of plastic” “Too many ideas” “vocabularies no color” “too many paintings” “too many songs” “too many Tarot decks” “& poems” “& books” “Too many” “things to eat” “too many” “machines” “magic machines” “too much magic” “much too much of it” “Stupor” “distress” “& abandoning of others” “too much news” “news” “everything” “made the same” “too many names” “too much knowledge” (“knowledge, so endless” “is nothing”) “A war” “more news, more to know about, to know” “Excuse for anger” “indignation” “you can still keep your money” “know the terms of news” “terms” “& Not be nature” “don’t be nature” “mute” “not knowing the” “terms” “Know what news knows” “What words know” “Do words know?” “No they don’t, only flesh knows only

I wrap the blue towel after washing, around the damp weight of hair, bulky as a sleeping cat, and sit out on the porch. Still dripping water, it’ll be dry by supper, by the time the dust settles off your shoes, though it’s only five past noon. Think of the luxury: how to use the afternoon like the stretch of lawn spread before me. There’s the laundry, sun-warm clothes at twilight, and the mountain of beans in my lap. Each one, I’ll break and snap thoughtfully in half. But there is this slow arousal. The small buttons of my cotton blouse are pulling away from my body. I feel the strain of threads, the swollen magnolias heavy as a flock of birds in the tree. Already, the orange sponge cake is rising in the oven. I know you’ll say it makes your mouth dry and I’ll watch you drench your slice of it in canned peaches and lick the plate clean. So much hair, my mother used to say, grabbing the thick braided rope in her hands while we washed the breakfast dishes, discussing dresses and pastries. My mind often elsewhere as we did the morning chores together. Sometimes, a few strands would catch in her gold ring. I worked hard then, anticipating the hour when I would let the rope down at night, strips of sheets, knotted and tied, while she slept in tight blankets. My hair, freshly washed like a measure of wealth, like a bridal veil. Crouching in the grass, you would wait for the signal, for the movement of curtains before releasing yourself from the shadow of moths. Cloth, hair and hands, smuggling you in.

Liar, I thought, kneeling with the others, how can He love me and hate what I am? The dome of St. Peter's shone yellowish gold, like butter and eggs.My God, I prayed anyhow, as if made in the image and likeness of Him. Nearby, a handsome priest looked at me like a stone; I looked back, not desiring to go it alone. The college of cardinals wore punitive red. The white spine waved to me from his white throne. Being in a place not my own, much less myself, I climbed out, a beast in a crib. Somewhere a terrorist rolled a cigarette. Reason, not faith, would change him.

The white train emerges from a dark curtain of tall fir trees with its coat of light snow. The white train appears as though newly escaped from the jaws of night. The white train steams out of the forest into the clear white meadow, melting the fresh snow around it. The trees are towering. Ancient giants. A whole section seems to have been logged. Over there the folded arms of soldiers who gather in small groups. We cannot see leaders or individual faces. Horsemen far away. On their way to the revolution perhaps. In the dining car, behind the velvet curtains— blood puddings and sea pie, clear soups and small marrow. Already today the chef has cooked three luncheons while crossing Poland; the starched waiters managed without spilling a drop. Dozens of dirty white napkins heap on hampers like miniature Alps threatening to fall. But now the train has braked and stopped. Small boys fog the windows with their warm breath as they watch the soldiers with silver sabers who order everyone off the train, into the new snow.

Dried beans in a muslin sack, tied shut with greasy string. An ounce of ginger root to brew digestif, Procured on physician's advice from an "Oriental" grocer at remarkable expense, desiccated now almost Past recognition. Half a pound of sowbelly wrapped in cheesecloth. Hard cheese. A licorice twist. A box of sugar cubes to meliorate bitter tea—with these you could construct a model of the odd granite tomb He insisted on for his own final habitation. There in his beloved Camden he rests in a blank box. You may count there twelve thoracic vertebrae, two lunate bones, two trapeziums, a coccyx, And all the rest, to the final mystic number two hundred and six. His book is a homemade Bible. His tomb is a homemade Blake. Here is the skull-cup that held the brain his doctors lifted. He was the catalog of his perfect body. In love with health, He ate grim food. Behold his ounce of flour, cut with weevils. Behold his dried orange peel, studded with a sorry clove. This pantry is a compost now. It is small; it contains millipedes. The bottom shelf reveals this lunar dust, a Kosmos in it Writ in groceries.Here, as he never said. I hold it toward you.

Revives a relic Liquefies dry blood Touches a corpse To the quick Converts a monster to love— Who made man from mud

It was the blind girl from the rez who stole the baker’s missing bread; it was the guitar playing fool who crooned and raced the wild mustangs through our heads. It was the village idiot who played his chess without the fool, the bowl of soup who said too late, too late, too late to blame the thread, the spoon, the text, the mole.

Eloquent Silence of everyone I ever loved This cloudy Friday evening Spring but still cold A smattering of new buds Who's that Swaddled in The uneasy atmosphere In silence No chatter or pleasant surprise The lusty rush of a weekend With the beloved Who's that Sprouting now out of The cottony silence With silky whips Still hanging from their little chops Who is it straining To pop out Of the hardwood Rings of time Into the cool air Like there's another cool world On the other side of this one Worth pushing Through to or maybe We're already there Is that Why we shake

My head knocks against the stars. My feet are on the hilltops. My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of universal life. Down in the sounding foam of primal things I reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny. I have been to hell and back many times. I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God. I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible. I know the passionate seizure of beauty And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off." My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe.