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Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.

She and I make a bladder bag to draw water from the ice trench. She/I chain stitch/es a skin dressed in oil to make a new pot of soup. She/I sew/s a badger hair rough around the top of her/my kamiks to make the steps windward, toward the limits of woman. She/I eat/s club root and white clover to strengthen her/my silver body to bear a child. She/I map/s, following 1 degree from the North Star and 60 degrees from the end of the earth’s axis on rotation for Ukpeagvik she/I use/s a small arc of ice, cleaving into parts, reduced to simple curves fitted with serrated edges of white flesh. She/I mold/s to the fretted neck of frozen water into a deep urn, made like a rock shelter or a cavern. She/I construct/s a hole on the surface of a glacier formed by melting particles of roe and pan reservoir dust from a shelter for the ice worms. Because the earth is molding, burning, laughing, and purging its crust.

for Judith Radstone Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress bids me wear them, warm them, until evening when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her, resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope. She's beautiful. I dream about her in my attic bed; picture her dancing with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent beneath her French perfume, her milky stones. I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot, watch the soft blush seep through her skin like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass my red lips part as though I want to speak. Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see her every movement in my head.... Undressing, taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way she always does.... And I lie here awake, knowing the pearls are cooling even now in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night I feel their absence and I burn.

A can of self-defense pepper spray says it may irritate the eyes, while a bathroom heater says it’s not to be used in bathrooms. I collect warnings the way I used to collect philosophy quotes. Wittgenstein’s There’s no such thing as clear milk rubs shoulders with a box of rat poison which has been found to cause cancer in laboratory mice. Levinas’Language is a battering ram— a sign that says the very fact of saying, is as inscrutable as the laser pointer’s advice: Do not look into laser with remaining eye. Last week I boxed up the solemn row of philosophy tomes and carted them down to the used bookstore. The dolly read: Not to be used to transport humans. Did lawyers insist that the 13-inch wheel on the wheelbarrow proclaim it’s not intended for highway use? Or that Curling iron is for external use only? Abram says that realists render material to give the reader the illusion of the ordinary. What would he make of this injunction?Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover. I load boxes of books onto the counter. Flip to a yellow-highlighted passage in Aristotle: Whiteness which lasts for a long time is no whiter than whiteness which lasts only a day. A.A.ers talk about the blinding glare of the obvious: Objects in the mirror are actually behind you. Electric cattle prod only to be used on animals. Warning: Knives are sharp. Thank you! What would I have done without:remove infant before folding for storage, Do not use hair dryer while sleeping, Eating pet rocks may lead to broken teeth, Do not use deodorant intimately? Goodbye to all those books that sought to puncture the illusory world—not unlike the warning on the polyester Halloween outfit I bought for my son: Superman costume will not enable you to fly.

To airmen crossing and communicant With orders of this field, no landing here But by the grace of God; no postulant Piloting earthward should abuse his fear: Trust in the instruments which fall their round, Tonight the only ceiling is the ground; Zero, from nothing into nothing made, Signifies all of altitude that stayed. Notice the fog that makes me all but blind; Here in the tower my skeleton will do To signal you. I am for all your kind Tonight’s full complement and only crew. Airmen, I hope you read loud and clear; Your radios sound happy and sincere: Roger, you say, and dive for wreaths of holly Thinking the next voice heard will be as jolly. Suggest you take along the death’s-head flag And hope that waving it will set you free. Judgment, like flights, may be a game of tag And you can shake and plead the Varsity. Say that team spirit was your only motive: You shot them up and did a locomotive. What if there is a temporary fetter? Christ understands. He also got his letter. I have you, heroes, holding each your course: You shot them up a little, and you grope Tonight with neither memory nor remorse; My skull is watching in the radarscope. I marvel as I track your sure downfall How you can navigate or fly at all For thinking of the tallies without log Until you make an error in this fog.

For love—I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes. Love is dead in us if we forget the virtues of an amulet and quick surprise.

Was he married, did he try To support as he grew less fond of them Wife and family? No, He never suffered such a blow. Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait, Unwanted by everyone and in the way? From his cradle he was purposeful, His bent strong and his mind full. Did he love people very much Yet find them die one day? He did not love in the human way. Did he ask how long it would go on, Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end? He did not feel like this, He had a future of bliss. Did he never feel strong Pain for being wrong? He was not wrong, he was right, He suffered from others’, not his own, spite. But there is no suffering like having made a mistake Because of being of an inferior make. He was not inferior, He was superior. He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern? His thoughts were different. Did he lack friends? Worse, Think it was for his fault, not theirs? He did not lack friends, He had disciples he moulded to his ends. Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even? How could he feel like this? He was the King of Heaven. ...find a sudden brightness one day in everything Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin? I tell you, he did not sin. Do only human beings suffer from the irritation I have mentioned? learn too that being comical Does not ameliorate the desperation? Only human beings feel this, It is because they are so mixed. All human beings should have a medal, A god cannot carry it, he is not able. A god is Man’s doll, you ass, He makes him up like this on purpose. He might have made him up worse. He often has, in the past. To choose a god of love, as he did and does, Is a little move then? Yes, it is. A larger one will be when men Love love and hate hate but do not deify them? It will be a larger one.

I was, I was—by its posthumous chomp, by its bad dab of venom, its joy-buzzer buzz. If you’re ever shanked like the chump that I was, by the posthumous chomp of an expired wire, you’ll bellow out prompt at the pitiless shiv when she does what she does. Was

Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow-ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers, clear, with delicate shell- like leaf enclosing frozen lily-leaf, camellia texture, colder than a rose; wind-flower that keeps the breath of the north-wind— these and none other; intimate thoughts and kind reach out to share the treasure of my mind, intimate hands and dear drawn garden-ward and sea-ward all the sheer rapture that I would take to mould a clear and frigid statue; rare, of pure texture, beautiful space and line, marble to grace your inaccessible shrine.

The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on, Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire By little whimpering boy, with rueful face — Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing day. Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs, Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn, The red-armed washers come and chase repose. Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, Ere visited that day; the very cat, From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth, Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest. The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched, Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks Cast at the louring, if sky should lour. From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens! For should the skies pour down, adieu to all Remains of quiet; then expect to hear Of sad disasters — dirt and gravel stains Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once Snapped short, and linen-horse by dog thrown down, And all the petty miseries of life. Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, And Montezuma smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing day. But grant the welkin fair, require not thou Who callest thyself, perchance, the master there, Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, Or usual ’tendence; ask not, indiscreet, Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find Some snug recess impervious. Shouldst thou try The ’customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight Of coarse-checked apron, with impatient hand Twitched off when showers impend; or crossing lines Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim On such a dav the hospitable rites; Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie, Or tart or pudding; pudding he nor tart That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try — Mending what can’t be helped — to kindle mirth From cheer deficient, shall his consort’s brow Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest In silence dines, and early slinks away. I well remember, when a child, the awe This day struck into me; for then the maids, I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them; Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams, Relic of costly suppers, and set by For me their petted one; or buttered toast, When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale Of ghost, or witch, or murder. So I went And sheltered me beside the parlour fire; There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, Tended the little ones, and watched from harm; Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured One less indulgent. At intervals my mother’s voice was heard, Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on, All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. Then would I sit me down, and ponder much Why washings were; sometimes through hollow hole Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft The floating bubbles; little dreaming then To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near approach The sports of children and the toils of men. Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles, And verse is one of them — this most of all.