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O poetry, visit this house often, imbue my life with success, leave me not alone, give me a wife and home. Take this curse off of early death and drugs, make me a friend among peers, lend me love, and timeliness. Return me to the men who teach and above all, cure the hurts of wanting the impossible through this suspended vacuum. 1969

Raking lace at the fringe of the tide, raking with fingers the English and cutwork and French of the froth, with the negative black dwarf sun in her eye echo eye mirror eye, she, taking his fingers, English and Hebrew bones, bobbin bones, to lace with her own, said love, if you like, but abyss of light.

Suppose, my little lady, Your doll should break her head, Could you make it whole by crying Till your eyes and nose are red? And would n’t it be pleasanter To treat it as a joke; And say you ’re glad “’T was Dolly’s And not your head that broke?” Suppose you ’re dressed for walking, And the rain comes pouring down, Will it clear off any sooner Because you scold and frown? And would n’t it be nicer For you to smile than pout, And so make sunshine in the house When there is none without? Suppose your task, my little man, Is very hard to get, Will it make it any easier For you to sit and fret? And would n’t it be wiser Than waiting like a dunce, To go to work in earnest And learn the thing at once? Suppose that some boys have a horse, And some a coach and pair, Will it tire you less while walking To say, “It is n’t fair?” And would n’t it be nobler To keep your temper sweet, And in your heart be thankful You can walk upon your feet? And suppose the world don’t please you, Nor the way some people do, Do you think the whole creation Will be altered just for you? And is n’t it, my boy or girl, The wisest, bravest plan, Whatever comes, or does n’t come, To do the best you can?

There is a drear and lonely tract of hell From all the common gloom removed afar: A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell. I walked among them and I knew them well: Men I had slandered on life's little star For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar Upon their brows of woe ineffable. But as I went majestic on my way, Into the dark they vanished, one by one, Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, The dream of all my glory was undone,— And, with a fool's importunate dismay, I heard the dead men singing in the sun.

“I'm so—” I start to apologize, but Albert laughs. “It's not my birthday,” he says. I'm confused. “It's for you, Bindi.” “Me?” I say. “It's not my birthday, either.” Albert leads me to the chair. He hands me the present. I open it. It's one of those plastic trophy things. It says: “World's Best Sister.” I get all choked up. “I'm really proud of you,” says Albert. “You are?” “Totally. You came through a really rough time, Bindi.” “Not always with flying colors,” I say. “True, but you never gave up.” “I thought I did, sometimes. And you went to all this trouble?” Albert shrugs. “It's what brothers do.” Albert's grandmother pops her head in. I look up. Megan and Kyra are in the doorway, smiling. Mrs. Poole leads us all over to the table. The message on the cake reads: “Bravo to Our Bindi!” “Wow!” says Kyra. Megan turns to Albert. “Need another sister?”

I Near Lion, Bliss mimes. Shy.  Fish hat, two bandaids. pith : flee cat light fat cloak Dear Orion, This rhymes. I.  Wish that, you had stayed. with : me that night that broke 2 Hear Why an oar slides off the boat. See thin blue chance hum there a fourth in rows. Dear Orion More rhymes. Cough.  A throat. Begin to dance somewhere the north wind blows. 3 Clear My One clogged throat. Reverse rhyme. Switch surface, depth.  Carry across the two of me, from you, or you. Dear Orion Bog, moat. Perverse sign. Hitch surfeit, step. Wary of dross a new love she, some clue. For, to. I Steer Me Bliss chimes. Why, dish-flat too bad, frayed. Flint sea. Sad height at float Dear She This rhymes. I, wish-that you had, stayed. With me. That night that broke

Surfaces serve their own purposes, strive to remain constant (all lives want that). There is a skin, not just on peaches but on oceans (note the telltale slough of foam on beaches). Sometimes it’s loose, as in the case of cats: you feel how a second life slides under it. Sometimes it fits. Take glass. Sometimes it outlasts its underside. Take reefs. The private lives of surfaces are innocent, not devious. Take the one-dimensional belief of enamel in itself, the furious autonomy of luster (crush a pearl— it’s powder), the whole curious seamlessness of how we’re each surrounded and what it doesn’t teach.

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit -Life!

I don't want to teach you anything or show you my wound or have you taste the amazing thing I made this morning with only what we had left in the fridge before you came home with new groceries. I’m as tired as you are of genius. Hey, do you know where we put the sky? I haven’t seen it for months. When I was in New Mexico last week all I did was push the baby in her stroller and worry about the sun on her legs and think about coming home. Now I’m home and I’m thinking of the way the light came in off the runway while I was waiting in the airport for the return flight, feeding the baby a hundred Cheerios, one by one, thinking, I don’t even know how to visit New Mexico anymore, thinking, I guess there isn’t going to be a time when I live like I lived that summer in Santa Fe, that summer-into-fall I’ve for so long told myself I will someday return to, that place I’ve kept, that ace in the hole, that life with mornings and afternoons that I am still holding back with the very tip of my fingernail. After all, this afternoon is the afternoon I’ve been waiting for all my life: running the vacuum over the rugs while you walk the baby around the block and my breasts heat and tingle as they fill again with milk and someone with the wrong number calls my cell again and again, refusing to take there is no Phillip here for an answer. This is, after all, the exact life I take with me to bed each night, digging deeper and deeper into its blood-dark soil, waking some mornings from dreams that shake me and leave me with a thirst for the past or the future, a distance I can never reach—dreams of a house I don’t recognize but know I have lived in all my life, someone I’ve never seen saying,Reach under your shoulder blade and feel with your fingers the place where I pierced you. Oh, that summer: Why did I have to leave it cracked open behind me as I went? How did I even do that? How did I get that one sky to stay wedged there, blue as the sky and just as big?

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee?—Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.