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1 —Yet  sitting  with so little blood  leaving me to cause  this  fatigue ,  on top of the picnic table my ankles are now over its precipice    of at  the  air  over  its edge   over even the hollow circular   and flat  thin stalks and grass blades  growing fast with so much speed no hurry I   can see  beneath  my feet  kicking into the summer air   ——                              looking up   from   underneath  in  front  of  the  on- rushing speed  of  a   cloud   throwing its   first   thrust-shudders over the top edge  of  the  mountain   like      I      thought a spreading out of  the    unlawed —    up  from    underneath    its white   cloud   edge ,   especially harvested  by  all these  fir  and  spruce  and  aspen and  pine top   edges   jutting fragrant fierce with hot smell  ( spill- outs   of their    seeds  ) growing     the   indent- ing of   the    mountain   in their evergreen to blue tone - scented  modulatings   , taperings   , moorings which the now  big  cloud   passing over also  harvests push - ing   some   kind of   lawlessness 2 along           —  —  (  up    from my   feet  I’ve    stopped  kicking  ,  or  now  forget  to  kick  , underneath the   great white  cloud    moving at  varying   and   breakneck speeds   —   Which  I imagine is    unlawed             though   I   am  not moving   —                         imagine moving     out   from     its   nature            but   it is  not    a law    passing   over    the air   waves   the satellite  dish   the meta- llic  meticulous   signals  ,  ,  )  —  I   am losing neither  a little    nor    a  lot of   blood     —             over  the  dropped - down  landscape  thundering  along   its    applause sounds   its  green  to   brown   to   amber  under- neath   feathering  along  its before-fatigue intricacy , which   harvests  the let    me come closer   in — & the   sun    ,        a windfall  enabling   so   much   of  it roving     the   mountain  from  almost  its  very  beginning   to its very  present  height   ,      the world  surges as    world    against  ,       then      dives out   from   into        air and the  lightflow at its fast one   & only    speed     all   smashing  into what   looks   like  a  lumpy  eternity  ,   me  and  the  black summer fly    in its    engines  ,   a  repose   in   the windflow and in  its bumping     up against  ? And  in its  bumping  up   against . Though    ,    I think it    is    also mortal    ,    of moving   ,   of    collision , of  chance encounter until their    currents  ,  until   their wakes let you     in   ,    let     you     through    —

~~ & thus you entered a forest of solitudes where in this great sense your life had been pursued, till like a shadow breaking off a rising body, a need hovered & grew. Some lined feature of another fate strives to be met, sits low & upright. Those qualities which had been energy or grace past pain wove from the nerves a nest or instinct. Your calms are interesting. Write to us during this terrible government. A universe coughs blue & draws a twiceness from the mitred now, while your garden hand spells the inexhaustible forms~~ FOR  ELIZABETH   ROBINSON

1 Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph. The sun was shining. The dogs were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping, calm and unmoving as in all photographs. I wiped the dust from my mother’s face. Indeed, dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood. In the background, an assortment of park furniture, trees and shrubbery. The sun moved lower in the sky, the shadows lengthened and darkened. The more dust I removed, the more these shadows grew. Summer arrived. The children leaned over the rose border, their shadows merging with the shadows of the roses. A word came into my head, referring to this shifting and changing, these erasures that were now obvious— it appeared, and as quickly vanished. Was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion? Summer arrived, then autumn. The leaves turning, the children bright spots in a mash of bronze and sienna. 2 When I had recovered somewhat from these events, I replaced the photograph as I had found it between the pages of an ancient paperback, many parts of which had been annotated in the margins, sometimes in words but more often in spirited questions and exclamations meaning “I agree” or “I’m unsure, puzzled—” The ink was faded. Here and there I couldn’t tell what thoughts occurred to the reader but through the bruise-like blotches I could sense urgency, as though tears had fallen. I held the book awhile. It was Death in Venice(in translation); I had noted the page in case, as Freud believed, nothing is an accident. Thus the little photograph was buried again, as the past is buried in the future. In the margin there were two words, linked by an arrow: “sterility” and, down the page, “oblivion”— “And it seemed to him the pale and lovely summoner out there smiled at him and beckoned...” 3 How quiet the garden is; no breeze ruffles the Cornelian cherry. Summer has come. How quiet it is now that life has triumphed. The rough pillars of the sycamores support the immobile shelves of the foliage, the lawn beneath lush, iridescent— And in the middle of the sky, the immodest god. Things are, he says. They are, they do not change; response does not change. How hushed it is, the stage as well as the audience; it seems breathing is an intrusion. He must be very close, the grass is shadowless. How quiet it is, how silent, like an afternoon in Pompeii. 4 Beatrice took the children to the park in Cedarhurst. The sun was shining. Airplanes passed back and forth overhead, peaceful because the war was over. It was the world of her imagination: true and false were of no importance. Freshly polished and glittering— that was the world. Dust had not yet erupted on the surface of things. The planes passed back and forth, bound for Rome and Paris—you couldn’t get there unless you flew over the park. Everything must pass through, nothing can stop— The children held hands, leaning to smell the roses. They were five and seven. Infinite, infinite—that was her perception of time. She sat on a bench, somewhat hidden by oak trees. Far away, fear approached and departed; from the train station came the sound it made. The sky was pink and orange, older because the day was over. There was no wind. The summer day cast oak-shaped shadows on the green grass.

(From a Persian Carpet) Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind; Or all a wing, less than wind, Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing, Haunting the musk precincts of burial. For the season of newer riches moves triumphing, Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom— How weigh while a great summer knows increase, Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?— Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays, Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively: So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes. And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now Not to glance to fabulous groves again! For now deep presence is, and binds its close, And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs. And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree, The fable of orient threads from bough to bough. Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within Has reached from nothing to its covering These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought Towards the still trance of summer’s centering, Motives by ravished humble fingers set, Each in a noon of its own infinite. And here is leant the branch and its repose of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose, Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light! And here the nests, and freshet throats resume Notes over and over found, names For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here But moss and its bells now of the root’s night; But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair, Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has Access of day. Now on the subtle noon Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid, Of clement kind; and everlastingly, In some elision of bright moments is known, Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone; Its separations, sighing to own again Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight, Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light; Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness, While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.

Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring; And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank'd, and crown'd, A wild and giddy thing, And Health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr's wing, And cheer the toiling clown. Happy as holiday-enjoying face, Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell," Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; And where the troubled dwell, Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares; And from thy sunny spell, They greet joy unawares. Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, And mantle laced with gems of garish light, Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, And in the world's despite, Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles; If haply so I might Win pleasure from thy smiles. Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, In nightly revels or in city streets; But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, That one at leisure meets In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, Or fields, where bee-fly greets The ear with mellow horn. The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; There bees go courting every flower that's ripe, On baulks and sunny banks; And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon, Attempts to give God thanks In no discordant tune. The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, There sings unto himself for joy's amends, And drinks the honey dew of solitude. There Happiness attends With inbred Joy until the heart o'erflow, Of which the world's rude friends, Nought heeding, nothing know. There the gay river, laughing as it goes, Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows What pleasure there abides, To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: Spots Solitude provides To muse, and happy be. There ruminating 'neath some pleasant bush, On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease, Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please, Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky. There think me how some barter joy for care, And waste life's summer-health in riot rude, Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware. When passions vain intrude, These, by calm musings, softened are and still; And the heart's better mood Feels sick of doing ill. There I can live, and at my leisure seek Joys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride— Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek Rude health, so long denied. Here poor Integrity can sit at ease, And list self-satisfied The song of honey-bees. The green lane now I traverse, where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude batter'd finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Cheers up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town. I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours; The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew Of morning's early hours, Like gold yminted new. And mark by rustic bridge, o'er shallow stream, Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall. Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the o'ershadow'd brims Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams, Stretching his listless limbs; Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long, Where joy's wild impulse swims In one continued song. I love at early morn, from new mown swath, To see the startled frog his route pursue; To mark while, leaping o'er the dripping path, His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that from its bustle flies, To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies. To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn, That from the tiny bent's dew-misted leaves Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves. Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, Wont to be first unsealing Morning's eye, Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing, Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing. Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day; While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe Æolian song. I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again, That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, Summer's sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds. Rich music breathes in Summer's every sound; And in her harmony of varied greens, Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around Much beauty intervenes, Filling with harmony the ear and eye; While o'er the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky. See, how the wind-enamoured aspen leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun! And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives, And makes the sheep-boy run: The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain's begun, And hastes to sheltering bowers. But now the evening curdles dank and grey, Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; And moping owls, to close the lids of day, On drowsy wing proceed; While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, Light's farewell inly heed, And give it parting song. The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew; O'er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes Inquiries ever new, Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again. Hark! 'tis the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells O'er the dim stilly grounds; While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy. Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening faggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound, Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, And scour the dewy plain. How sweet the soothing calmness that distills O'er the heart's every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! That softens and subdues, With gentle Quiet's bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain! I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheer'd me when a boy. Play—pastime—all Time's blotting pen conceal'd, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field. For Nature's objects ever harmonize With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys; Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys O'er Nature's pleasing things; nor slighting, deems Pastimes, the Muse employs, Vain and obtrusive themes.

Yes, the young mothers are beautiful, with all the self-acceptance of exhaustion, still dazed from their great outpouring, pushing their strollers along the public river walk.

At the end of the work day you could tell exactly how far you had gotten and how much farther there was to go. Of course, it was just a ditch for a pipeline to carry the reeking slop that a neighborhood of toilets would slosh together to be drained away but it was clean, the trench, the slick walls the backhoe bucket cut and the precise grade of the bottom. My job was to sight the transit. I gave a thumbs up or thumbs down or the OK sign if the pitch was right so that some future day shit would flow just as it should, down hill, but you knew where you stood, what you had done in a day, and what more there was to do and every meaningful thing I had said I had said without a word.

“The trouble with intellectuals,” Manny, my boss, once told me, “is that they don’t know nothing till they can explain it to themselves.  A guy like that,” he said, “he gets to middle age—and by the way, he gets there late; he’s trying to be a boy until he’s forty, forty-five, and then you give him five more years until that craziness peters out, and now he’s almost fifty—a guy like that at last explains to himself that life is made of time, that time is what it’s all about.  Aha! he says.  And then he either blows his brains out, gets religion, or settles down to some major-league depression. Make yourself useful.  Hand me that three-eights torque wrench—no, you moron, the other one.”

He has transformed his Tonka dump truck into a push mower, using lumber scraps and duct tape to construct a handle on the front end of the dump box. One brave screw holds the makeshift contraption together. All summer they outline the edges of these acres, first Daddy, and then, behind him this small echo, each dodging the same stumps, pausing to slap a mosquito, or rest in the shade, before once again pacing out into the light, where first one, and then the other, leans forward to guide the mowers along the bright edges of this familiar world.

themes from the Tzu Yeh and the Book of Songs I have carried my pillow to the windowsill And try to sleep, with my damp arms crossed upon it, But no breeze stirs the tepid morning. Only I stir ... Come, tease me a little! With such cold passion, so little teasing play, How long can we endure our life together? No use. I put on your long dressing-gown; The untied sash trails over the dusty floor. I kneel by the window, prop up your shaving mirror And pluck my eyebrows. I don’t care if the robe slides open Revealing a crescent of belly, a tan thigh. I can accuse that nonexistent breeze ... I am as monogamous as the North Star, But I don’t want you to know it. You’d only take advantage. While you are as fickle as spring sunlight. All right, sleep! The cat means more to you than I. I can rouse you, but then you swagger out. I glimpse you from the window, striding toward the river. When you return, reeking of fish and beer, There is salt dew in your hair. Where have you been? Your clothes weren’t that wrinkled hours ago, when you left. You couldn’t have loved someone else, after loving me! I sulk and sigh, dawdling by the window. Later, when you hold me in your arms It seems, for a moment, the river ceases flowing.