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The water off these rocks is green and cold. The sandless coast takes the tide in its mouth, as a wolf brings down a deer or lifts its child. I walked this bay before you were my child. Your fingers stinging brightly in the cold, I take each one and warm it in my mouth. Though I’ve known this shore for years, my mouth holds no charms of use to you, my child. You will have to learn the words to ward off cold and know them cold, child, in your open mouth.

(excerpt) From Book II With this he took his leve, and hom he wente; And lord, so he was glad and wel bygon! Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente, But streght in-to hire closet wente anon, And set hire doun as stylle as any ston, And every word gan up and doun to wynde, That he hadde seyd, as it com hire to mynde; And wex somdel aston ed in hire thought, Right for the newe cas; but whan that she Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought Of peril, why she ought afered be, For man may love, of possibilite, A womman so, his herte may to-breste, And she naught love ayein, but-if hire leste. But as she sat allone and thought e thus, Ascry aroos at scarmuch al with-oute, And men cryde in the strete, "Se, Troilus Hath right now put to flighte the Grekes route!" With that gan al hire meynee for to shoute, "A! go we see; caste up the latis wyde; For thorugh this strete he moot to paleys ryde; "For other wey is fro the yat e noon Of Dardanus, ther opyn is the cheyne." With that com he and al his folk anoon An esy pas rydynge, in routes tweyne, Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne, For which, men seyn, may nought distourbed be That shal bityden of necessitee. This Troilus sat on his bay e steede, Al armed, save his hed, ful richely, And wownded was his hors, and gan to blede, On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely, But swych a knyghtly sighte, trewely, As was on hym was nought, withouten faille, To loke on Mars, that god is of bataille. So lik a man of arm es and a knyght He was to seen, fulfilled of heigh prowesse; For bothe he hadde a body and a myght To doon that thing, as wel as hardynesse; And eek to seen hym in his gere hym dresse, So fressh, so yong, so weldy semed he, It was an heven up-on hym for to see. His helm to-hewen was in twenty places, That by a tyssew heng, his bak byhynde; His sheld to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces, In which men myghte many an arwe fynde That thirl ed hadde horn and nerf and rynde; And ay the peple cryde, "Here cometh oure joye, And, next his brother, holder up of Troye!" For which he wex a litel reed for shame, Whan he the peple up-on hym herde cryen, That to byholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his ÿen. Cryseÿda gan al his chere aspien, And leet it so softe yn hir herte synke, That to hireself she seyde, "Who yaf me drynke?" For of hire owen thought she wex al reed, Remembryng hire right thus, "Lo, this is he Which that myn uncle swerith he moot be deed, But I on hym have mercy and pitee." And with that thought, for pure ashamed, she Gan in hir hed to pulle, and that as faste, Whil he and all the peple forby paste. And gan to caste and rollen up and doun With-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse, And his estat, and also his renown, His wit, his shap, and eek his gentillesse; But moost hir favour was, for his distresse Was al for hire, and thoughte it was a routhe To sleen swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. Now myghte som envious jangle thus: "This was a sodeyn love; how myght it be That she so lightly loved Troilus Right for the firste syghte; ye, pardee?" Now who-so seith so, mote he never thee! For everything, a gynnyng hath it nede Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede. For I sey nought that she so sodeynly Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne To like him first, and I have told yow whi; And after that, his manhod and his pyne Made love with-inne hire herte for to myne, For which, by proces and by good servyse, He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.

Thus from a mixture of all kinds began, That het’rogeneous thing, an Englishman: In eager rapes, and furious lust begot, Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot. Whose gend’ring off-spring quickly learn’d to bow, And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough: From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came, With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame. In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran, Infus’d betwixt a Saxon and a Dane. While their rank daughters, to their parents just, Receiv’d all nations with promiscuous lust. This nauseous brood directly did contain The well-extracted blood of Englishmen. Which medly canton’d in a heptarchy, A rhapsody of nations to supply, Among themselves maintain’d eternal wars, And still the ladies lov’d the conquerors. The western Angles all the rest subdu’d; A bloody nation, barbarous and rude: Who by the tenure of the sword possest One part of Britain, and subdu’d the rest And as great things denominate the small, The conqu’ring part gave title to the whole. The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit, And with the English-Saxon all unite: And these the mixture have so close pursu’d, The very name and memory’s subdu’d: No Roman now, no Britain does remain; Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain: The silent nations undistinguish’d fall, And Englishman’s the common name for all. Fate jumbled them together, God knows how; What e’er they were they’re true-born English now. The wonder which remains is at our pride, To value that which all wise men deride. For Englishmen to boast of generation, Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation. A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction. A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules. A metaphor invented to express A man a-kin to all the universe. For as the Scots, as learned men ha’ said, Throughout the world their wand’ring seed ha’ spread; So open-handed England, ’tis believ’d, Has all the gleanings of the world receiv’d. Some think of England ’twas our Saviour meant, The Gospel should to all the world be sent: Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach, They to all nations might be said to preach. ’Tis well that virtue gives nobility, How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply? Since scarce one family is left alive, Which does not from some foreigner derive.

Rise up, rise up, And, as the trumpet blowing Chases the dreams of men, As the dawn glowing The stars that left unlit The land and water, Rise up and scatter The dew that covers The print of last night’s lovers— Scatter it, scatter it! While you are listening To the clear horn, Forget, men, everything On this earth newborn, Except that it is lovelier Than any mysteries. Open your eyes to the air That has washed the eyes of the stars Through all the dewy night: Up with the light, To the old wars; Arise, arise!

We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture. Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence, popped it right in. That frog song wanting nothing but echo? We used that. Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring. Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes of summer. Dropped in their names. Added a mint leaf now and then to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry. Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder? Perfect. And once we had it, had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup, placing the pan on a back burner for keeping, the sorrow lifted in small ways. We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared. We washed that pan.

... in which generally the patient has the sense of having lost contact with things, or of everything having undergone a subtle but all-encompassing change, reality revealed as never before, though eerie in some ineffable way. —Louis Sass Or gallery. Or strange askew museum. Or painting of a hotel bed with some cheap print above the headboard. (Palm tree or a sleigh pulling Xmas trees.) Or the day two-dimensional, subzero as I run the beach along the frozen lake. The waves lathed to Hokusai spirals. Cold gallery, every inch of wall space covered, park benches derbied by snow. House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. House for battered women. House of the servants of His Godhead Reverend Moon Who plots in some Seoul penthouse His glorious death and resurrection. Ten minutes ago I left you to the laying on of hands. Maria talking fast in glottal Polish, and the physical therapist, hugely blonde, lifting your legs, white cocoons of the casts. First up, then to the sides, the hospital bed in the living room hulking, whirring as it moves along with you. To talk of this and you directly, though I can’t. To heal you with my own hands though I can’t. Legs not working, hands not working, tongue encased in plaster. The tongue going numb with the hands. Why my friend Dave loves jazz: to hammer and obliterate the words, nullify too the wordlessness. “Blue Train” on my Walkman as the Moonies leave from house to van, lugging crates of silken flowers. Blue pills that didn’t work. Then my month of yellow pills. To not metamorphose to my father writhing as the charges surge from temples down the spine, a dog’s twitching legs in sleep. To mollify with acronyms: ECT, Odysseuses and Tristans of PDR, yellow Prozac, sky blue Zoloft. To heal you with my own hands though I can’t. The day two-dimensional. (Past and present and to dwell in neither.) Truth-taking stare. Height and width, no depth. On a screen the paramedics ease you from car to ambulance, having labored with a crowbar at the door, and I push again through the crowd on Thorndale.This is my husband. Please let him come with me.

Every time I use my language, I tell the truth. A cat in a white collar, like a priest with calico fur, walks across the dead grass of the yard, and out through the white fence. The sun’s strong, but the colors of the lawn were washed out by the winter, not the light. February. Stained glass window of the house next door takes the sun’s full brunt. It must look spectacular to the neighbor in my head, a white-haired woman with an air of dignity and grace, who through pools of the intensest colors climbs the flight of stairs. I’ve never seen it, but I know it’s there.

And now, the horse is entering the sea, and the sea holds it. Where are we? Behind us, the beach, yes, its scrim, yes, of grass, dune, sky—Desire goes by, and though it’s wind of course making the grass bend, unbend, we say it’s desire again, passing us by, souveniring us with gospel the grass, turned choir, leans into, Coming— Lord, soon.

Trying to see the proportional relation Of one memory to another One is so strange, and then To try and see what looms And doesn’t for the other person Who was there, it gets stranger, Especially when you’ve read His email. I don’t know how people Understand their lives, measure Their sensations against “objective” Or so-to-speak democratic estimations, Whether people accept the externality Of events, “events,” as things That happen to them. I refuse To accept some coagulate Of other people’s Impressions in exchange for this Privacy, no matter how flawed it is. This is lyric poetry. It has to be. It has No other hope. What was it About you and me that made whatever Happen to us. In New York Everything fell apart. What I dreaded And expected. But still. Tonight It is dark and the weather is cooler Than it’s been. It has taken A while for Fall to break; the global Warming kept me in summer Love with you like I was under a Fermata. Now that the times Are changing, I feel Even more for you; or I feel nothing. I can’t tell; it’s kind Of scary. I was sick of thinking About you this morning but I was listening to Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen in order to think about You for literary purposes. When I feel nothing for a person I get scared I’m losing my humanity And that turning cold means My heart’s been botoxed: we’re All fucked. I watched a movie on YouTube Called Ladies and Gentlemen, Mister Leonard Cohen that was made when He was still just a poet and only Famous in Canada. He’s a pretentious little nerd In it, self-important, teacher’s pet wit. I think that, making music, he became So much nakeder, much more desperate. The talent, real, even pure, even Natural, had to ripen in The artificial man. Alain Badiou, on the day Of his class, said, “Because an event Is pure rapture, an event disappears Immediately: it does not exist Objectively, but only by appearing And disappearing.” This is both Precise and vague; it is attractive I guess. I guess since you and me did not Disappear immediately, it was Not pure rapture, not in these Terms, but my smile Was real each time I swallowed Your cum. Getting Fucked by you was great; I could Feel it in my organs, but You didn’t make me go insane Except for maybe once Or twice. Actually maybe I am Being unfair. Maybe the fucking really Was that great. In this moment I Can’t remember. I just read a poetry Review in which the reviewer States that a certain book Made his cock feel as though It were tall as a tree. That’s Nice. I have no idea What it feels like to have A cock. Sometimes I feel As though I’m getting close To understanding and then Something happens to make Me have no clue again. When Sinan Fucks me, we lose our individuality So severely it’s like we’re both Gasping after an animal that’s his Cock that is beyond us and I lose All sense of the world. His cock’s Not even him, and he’s not him either And we aren’t anything. It’s strange, the possessive. Didn’t Thomas Mann write a book called Herr Und Hund or something like that? Man’s best friend. What belongs To him. Me and Sunder Talked about how scary and arousing It is to watch men masturbate, cos Everyone relates differently to his. Like dicks are always almost but never Quite another.Je est un autre, Said that brat Arthur Rimbaud. I am definitely in love with you As I write this. You are so petty And superfluous I cannot stand You. Sinan is definitely In love with me. I know, because I saw him tonight. I love Him too. You are gracious To accord me the space and time In which to develop, or to elaborate Upon, as the French say, these Extreme emotions I am, despite The odds and certain lapses, So capable of feeling. It was good to slap Your face and to admit That your asshole Made me nervous. Your eyes had a way Of going soft and shiny When you said the really Tender things. We admitted It was intimidating For us both to hear each other describe People we’ve fucked and been In love with. I’m proud of what We accomplished together. Alain Badiou Ended his class with a reading Of “Ariane et Barbe-Bleue” which Is an opera by Paul Dukas. You And me had gone pretty far By the time this day came, and Something very fragile in me breaks When somebody says my name, or Even a variant of it. I was tired. I think Badiou discusses “Ariane” In Being and Event which I have not read. In class he said That the story of the opera is About the relationship between law And freedom, and that it shows That the desire for freedom is not So simple. Ariane experiences an Event That causes her to demand freedom, Badiou Said, but she is unable to convince anybody Else,any other women to want freedom; she ends up alone. She genuinely falls in love with the wicked Bluebeard at the beginning. Bluebeard Who previously got women by having a castle To lock them in. This woman Ariane Does not have to be taken By force. When she enters His castle he hands Her seven keys, six Of which he gives her permission To use, and leaves. She hears the cries Of his other, imprisoned wives, Coming from behind a door. So she uses The forbidden key, releasing them. Meanwhile Bluebeard is assaulted By the local peasants, who want To free Ariane, fearing her fate will turn out like That of the women who came before her. But Ariane is already free In herself, and proves this freedom By bringing the wounded Bluebeard Home, caring tenderly for him, and then Declaring that she’s leaving him for good. By the end Bluebeard’s shattered, sobbing, Bleeding. Ariane Invites the other wives to leave with her In a wrenching aria, pleading With them one by one to taste With her the freedom awaiting Them,The World. But they all prefer confinement Even though they had longed For freedom before Ariane opened Their door. Once liberty arrived they were no Longer capable of it, preferring to serve; even a gutted, Hollowed-out power. Ariane exits Alone. The end. Badiou narrated This with emotion and I cried. Maybe cos I was tired and That thing about my name or because I am not heroic or free. I had missed half of Alain Badiou’s Lectures messing around with you On the couch by the fire; in the women’s Toilets; up on the hill. If this were a suitable parable, And it isn’t, I would try to tell myself That those very early mornings in Brooklyn when I sat Up in your bed feeling wrong and Got dressed and walked away, I should Have stayed away cos I don’t need you. Maybe I don’t need you. But I want You. Maybe I don’t love you. But I am getting to know you. Maybe What made me cry in class was how tired I was and how sad and hard It is, and how rare, to undertake an act That’s truly free, and not just a response To a confused surge of drives and  fears.

One afternoon I said to mummy, “Who is this person in my tummy? “Who must be small and very thin “Or how could he have gotten in?” My mother said from where she sat, “It isn’t nice to talk like that.” “It’s true!” I cried. “I swear it, mummy! “There is a person in my tummy! “He talks to me at night in bed, “He’s always asking to be fed, “Throughout the day, he screams at me, “Demanding sugar buns for tea. “He tells me it is not a sin “To go and raid the biscuit tin. “I know quite well it’s awfully wrong “To guzzle food the whole day long, “But really I can’t help it, mummy, “Not with this person in my tummy.” “You horrid child!” my mother cried. “Admit it right away, you’ve lied!” “You’re simply trying to produce “A silly asinine excuse! “You are the greedy guzzling brat! “And that is why you’re always fat!” I tried once more, “Believe me, mummy, “There is a person in my tummy.” “I’ve had enough!” my mother said, “You’d better go at once to bed!” Just then, a nicely timed event Delivered me from punishment. Deep in my tummy something stirred, And then an awful noise was heard, A snorting grumbling grunting sound That made my tummy jump around. My darling mother nearly died, “My goodness, what was that?” she cried. At once the tummy voice came through, It shouted, “Hey there! Listen you! “I’m getting hungry! I want eats! “I want lots of chocs and sweets! “Get me half a pound of nuts! “Look snappy or I’ll twist your guts!” “That’s him!” I cried. “He’s in my tummy! “So now do you believe me, mummy?” But mummy answered nothing more, For she had fainted on the floor.