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Now as I watch you, strong of arm and endurance, battling and struggling With the waves that rush against you, ever with invincible strength returning Into my heart, grown each day more tranquil and peaceful, comes a fierce longing Of mind and soul that will not be appeased until, like you, I breast yon deep and boundless expanse of blue. With an outward stroke of power intense your mighty arm goes forth, Cleaving its way through waters that rise and roll, ever a ceaseless vigil keeping Over the treasures beneath. My heart goes out to you of dauntless courage and spirit indomitable, And though my lips would speak, my spirit forbids me to ask, “Is your heart as true as your arm?”

You brave Heroique Minds, Worthy your countries name, That honour still pursue, Goe, and subdue, Whilst loyt'ring Hinds Lurke here at home, with shame. Britans , you stay too long, Quickly aboord bestow you, And with a merry Gale Swell your stretch'd Sayle, With Vowes as strong, As the Winds that blow you. Your Course securely steere, West and by South forth keepe, Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes, When Eolus scowles, You need not feare, So absolute the Deepe. And cheerfully at Sea, Successe you still intice, To get the Pearle and Gold, And ours to hold, Virginia , Earth's onely Paradise. Where nature hath in store Fowle, Venison, and Fish, And the fruitfull'st Soyle, Without your Toyle, Three Harvests more, All greater than your wish. And the ambitious Vine Crownes with his purple Masse, The Cedar reaching hie To kisse the Sky, The Cypresse, Pine And use-full Sassafras. To whose, the golden Age Still Natures lawes doth give, No other Cares that tend, But Them to defend From Winters age, That long there doth not live. When as the Lushious smell Of that delicious Land, Above the Seas that flowes, The cleere Wind throwes, Your Hearts to swell Approching the deare Strand. In kenning of the Shore, (Thanks to God first given,) O you, the happy'st men, Be Frolike then, Let Cannons roare, Frighting the wide Heaven. And in Regions farre Such Heroes bring yee foorth, As those from whom We came, And plant Our name, Under that Starre Not knowne unto our North. And as there Plenty growes Of Lawrell every where, Apollo's Sacred tree, You it may see, A Poets Browes To crowne, that may sing there. Thy Voyage attend, Industrious Whose Reading shall inflame Men to seeke Fame, And much commend To after-times thy Wit.

She turned to gold and fell in love. She danced life upside down. She opened her wild eyes again and asked some strangers in. The strangers felt her in and out. They found her outsides thin. Since her heart was still and hard, they knocked her insides in.

After we picked you up at the Omaha airport, we clamped you into a new car seat and listened to you yowl beneath the streetlights of Nebraska. Our hotel suite was plump with toys, ready, we hoped, to soothe you into America. But for a solid hour you watched the door, shrieking,Umma, the Korean word for mother. Once or twice you glanced back at us and, in this netherworld where a door home had slammed shut forever, your terrified eyes paced between the past and the future. Umma, you screamed,Umma! But your foster mother back in Seoul never appeared. Your new mother and I lay on the bed, cooing your birth name, until, at last, you collapsed into our arms. In time, even terror must yield to sleep.

after Thomas James The strangers in the woods must mimic squirrels and crackle with the undergrowth. They must not flinch at the cruelty of breaking golden leaves with their feet, or of interring stones. And like any of these deciduous trees in autumn they must be stingy with shadow and move deceptively across the sludge. I listen to these strangers stirring with the evenings. I invent paths for them to the soft edge of the lake. Each descent is as graceful as a sinking ship, but less tragic somehow because these strangers don’t possess a lung. I cannot hear them breathe, yet the air is all whispers, all sighs—the same ethereal muscle that rubs the color off the foliage. I lost my way out of the woods on the night every bird went south or numb. A plump rat snatched the moon and dragged it by the white rope of its tail. The strangers were a cloak of silhouettes flattening against a trunk like bark. I must have disappeared among them because the mouth I touched was not my own and was cruelly closing in on someone’s rib. I carried such a bite on me, an arc of green and yellow on my side from the man who said he loved me. In that darkness I knew as much about him as I did of the amputee swimming his way up the hill with his only arm. So this is the home of the unturned stone where the fugitive keeps his kiss! Archeologists will discover a paradise in the place no touch died of neglect. Is it any wonder all things forgotten or abandoned find their way here? The winter is back, so too the bloated body of a book I tossed over the bridge last week. And there on the bench, is my old smoking habit, a cigarette glowing on my mouth like a beacon. I’m patient, waiting for the fugitive to claim me as his own. I’m as wise as any stranger here, alone but with the knowledge that the grief of separation is always brief.

In white pleated trousers, peering through green sunshades, looking for the way the sun is red noise, how locusts hiss to replicate the sun. What is the visual equivalent of syncopation? Rows of seared palms wrinkle in the heat waves through green glass. Sprinklers tick, tick, tick. The Watts Towers aim to split the sky into chroma, spires tiled with rubble nothing less than aspiration. I’ve left minarets for sun and syncopation, sixty-seven shades of green which I have counted, beginning: palm leaves, front and back, luncheon pickle, bottle glass, etcetera. One day I will comprehend the different grades of red. On that day I will comprehend these people, rhythms, jazz, Simon Rodia, Watts, Los Angeles, aspiration.

At 14th Street and First Avenue Is a bank and in the bank the sexiest teller of all time Next to her the greatest thing about today Is today itself Through which I go up To buy books They float by under a bluer sky The girls uptown Quiet, pampered The sum of all that's terrible in women And much of the best And the old men go by holding small packages In a trance So rich even they can't believe it I think it's a red, white, and blue letter day for them too You see, Con Ed's smokestacks are beautiful The way Queens is And horses: from a pleasant distance Or a fleet of turkeys Stuffed in a spotless window In two days they'll be sweating in ovens Thinking, "How did I ever get in a fix like this?" Light pouring over buildings far away Up here when someone shouts "Hey!" In the street you know that they aren't going to kill you They're yelling to a friend of theirs named Hey John David Hey, perhaps And the garbage goes out In big white billowy plastic bags tied at the top And even the people go out in them Some are waiting now At the bus stop (for a nonexistent bus) And I thought it was garbage! It's so pretty! If you're classless or modern You can have fun by Walking into a high-class antique store So the stately old snob at the desk will ask In eternity "You're going where?" You get to answer, "Up." I like these old pricks If you have an extra hair in the breeze Their eyes pop out And then recede way back As if to say, "That person is on . . . dope!" They're very correct But they're not in my shoes In front of a Dubuffet a circus that shines through A window in a bright all-yellow building The window is my eye And Frank O'Hara is the building I'm thinking about him like mad today (As anyone familiar with his poetry will tell) And about the way Madison Avenue really Does go to heaven And turns around and comes back, disappointed Because up here you can look down on the janitor Or pity him And rent a cloud-colored Bentley and Architecture's so wonderful! Why don't I notice it more often? And the young girls and boys but especially the young girls Are drifting away from school In blue and white wool Wrapped in fur Are they French? They're speaking French! And they aren't looking for things to throw Skirts sliding up the legs of girls who can't keep from grinning Under beautiful soft brown American eyes At the whole world Which includes their Plain Jane girlfriends She even smiled at me! I have about as much chance of fucking her as the girl at the bank But I stride along, a terrifying god Raunchy A little one-day-old beard And good grief I really did forget to brush my teeth this morning They're turning red with embarrassment Or is that blood I've been drinking—I ordered a black coffee Miss And then a black policeman comes in Unbuttoning his uniform at the warmish soda fountain While I pull the fleece over my teeth And stare innocently at the books I've bought One a book with a drawing By Apollinaire called Les Fraises au Mexique Strawberries in Mexico But when I open the book to that page It's just a very blue sky I'm looking at

When he speaks of deserved and undeserved as more than terms — how they can matter, suddenly — I can tell he believes it. Sometimes a thing can seem star-like when it’s just a star, stripped of whatever small form of joy likeness equals. Sometimes the thought that I’m doomed to fail — that the body is — keeps me almost steady, if steadiness is what a gift for a while brings — feathers, burst- at-last pods of milkweed, October — before it all fades away. Before the drugs and the loud music, before tears and restraining orders and the eventual go fuck yourself get your ass out of here don’t go

The small white mutt of my Unsure Self trails the masterless Dog of the Dying World, watching him lope the endless block of yards he knew before his birth‚ . . . I imitate his muffled bark & snuffling breath, as round & round we trot as one through rustling browns of the dying world. For it's come to me now that a dog sniffing round for the perfect smell,& a place to pee in the chilly breeze, is the Rudiment of Life. And, if so, the Poetry of Fall is the dog of myself, untied at last, from the Rope of the World dreaming he'll one day snuffle past those crackling heaps of burning leaves, becalmed by the scent of smoky light, Alone.

What thing unto mine ear Wouldst thou convey,—what secret thing, O wandering water ever whispering? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, What message dost thou bring? Say, hath not Love leaned low This hour beside thy far well-head, And there through jealous hollowed fingers said The thing that most I long to know— Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow And washed lips rosy red? He told it to thee there Where thy voice hath a louder tone; But where it welters to this little moan His will decrees that I should hear. Now speak: for with the silence is no fear, And I am all alone. Shall Time not still endow One hour with life, and I and she Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory? Say, streams, lest Love should disavow Thy service, and the bird upon the bough Sing first to tell it me. What whisperest thou? Nay, why Name the dead hours? I mind them well. Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell With desolate eyes to know them by. That hour must still be born ere it can die Of that I'd have thee tell. But hear, before thou speak! Withhold, I pray, the vain behest That while the maze hath still its bower for quest My burning heart should cease to seek. Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek His roadside dells of rest. Stream, when this silver thread In flood-time is a torrent brown, May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown? Shall not the waters surge and spread And to the crannied boulders of their bed Still shoot the dead drift down? Let no rebuke find place In speech of thine: or it shall prove That thou dost ill expound the words of Love. Even as thine eddy's rippling race Would blur the perfect image of his face I will have none thereof. O learn and understand That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak Love sought her aid; until her shadowy cheek And eyes beseeching gave command; And compassed in her close compassionate hand My heart must burn and speak. For then at last we spoke What eyes so oft had told to eyes Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sighs Alone the buried secret broke, Which with snatched hands and lips' reverberate stroke Then from the heart did rise. But she is far away Now; nor the hours of night grown hoar Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day When we shall meet once more. Dark as thy blinded wave When brimming midnight floods the glen,— Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when The dawn yields all the light they crave; Even so these hours to wound and that to save Are sisters in Love's ken. Oh sweet her bending grace Then when I kneel beside her feet; And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging heaven; and sweet The gathering folds of her embrace; And her fall'n hair at last shed round my face When breaths and tears shall meet. Beneath her sheltering hair, In the warm silence near her breast, Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest; As in some still trance made aware That day and night have wrought to fulness there And Love has built our nest. And as in the dim grove, When the rains cease that hushed them long, 'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song,— So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, While the leaves throb beneath, around, above, The quivering notes shall throng. Till tenderest words found vain Draw back to wonder mute and deep, And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep, Subdued by memory's circling strain,— The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again While all the willows weep. Then by her summoning art Shall memory conjure back the sere Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year Born dead; and, bitter to the heart, The very ways where now we walk apart Who then shall cling so near. And with each thought new-grown, Some sweet caress or some sweet name Low-breathed shall let me know her thought the same: Making me rich with every tone And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown That filled my dreams with flame. Pity and love shall burn In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands; And from the living spirit of love that stands Between her lips to soothe and yearn, Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn And loose my spirit's bands. Oh passing sweet and dear, Then when the worshipped form and face Are felt at length in darkling close embrace; Round which so oft the sun shone clear, With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, In many an hour and place. Ah me! with what proud growth Shall that hour's thirsting race be run; While, for each several sweetness still begun Afresh, endures love's endless drouth; Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth, Each singly wooed and won. Yet most with the sweet soul Shall love's espousals then be knit; What time the governing cloud sheds peace from it O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, And on the unmeasured height of Love's control The lustral fires are lit. Therefore, when breast and cheek Now part, from long embraces free,— Each on the other gazing shall but see A self that has no need to speak: All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek,— One love in unity. O water wandering past,— Albeit to thee I speak this thing, O water, thou that wanderest whispering, Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast, Its secret thence to wring? Nay, must thou hear the tale Of the past days,—the heavy debt Of life that obdurate time withholds,—ere yet To win thine ear these prayers prevail, And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail Yield up the amulet? How should all this be told?— All the sad sum of wayworn days,— Heart's anguish in the impenetrable maze; And on the waste uncoloured wold The visible burthen of the sun grown cold And the moon's labouring gaze? Alas! shall hope be nurs'd On life's all-succouring breast in vain, And made so perfect only to be slain? Or shall not rather the sweet thirst Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth dispers'd And strength grown fair again? Stands it not by the door!— Love's Hour—Till she and I shall meet With bodiless form and unapparent feet That cast no shadow yet before, Though round its head the dawn begins to pour The breath that makes day sweet? Its eyes invisible Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade Be born,—yea, till the journeying line be laid Upon the point that wakes the spell, And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell Its presence stands array'd. Its soul remembers yet Those sunless hours that passed it by; And still it hears the night's disconsolate cry, And feels the branches wringing wet Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, Dumb tears from the blind sky. But oh! when now her foot Draws near, for whose sake night and day Were long in weary longing sighed away,— The hour of Love, 'mid airs grown mute, Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute Thrill to the passionate lay. Thou know'st, for Love has told Within thine ear, O stream, how soon That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. O tell me, for my lips are cold, And in my veins the blood is waxing old Even while I beg the boon. So, in that hour of sighs Assuaged, shall we beside this stone Yield thanks for grace; while in thy mirror shown The twofold image softly lies, Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes Is imaged all alone. Still silent? Can no art Of Love's then move thy pity? Nay, To thee let nothing come that owns his sway: Let happy lovers have no part With thee; nor even so sad and poor a heart As thou hast spurned to-day. To-day? Lo! night is here. The glen grows heavy with some veil Risen from the earth or fall'n to make earth pale; And all stands hushed to eye and ear, Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear And every covert quail. Ah! by another wave On other airs the hour must come Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. Between the lips of the low cave Against that night the lapping waters lave, And the dark lips are dumb. But there Love's self doth stand, And with Life's weary wings far flown, And with Death's eyes that make the water moan, Gathers the water in his hand: And they that drink know nought of sky or land But only love alone. O soul-sequestered face Far off,—O were that night but now! So even beside that stream even I and thou Through thirsting lips should draw Love's grace, And in the zone of that supreme embrace Bind aching breast and brow. O water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears,— As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers?— Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, Wan water, wandering water weltering, This hidden tide of tears.