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Some lunatic with a gun killed some people at an immigration center in Binghamton, New York. Liz Rosenberg and her family live up there and David, her husband, teaches in the middle school which is close to all the action (the way, in any smallish town, everything is close to all the action). I called Liz to see if everyone was all right and she was in her car driving to the elementary school to pick up Lily, her young daughter she brought back from China a few years ago. Lily was fine, but Liz wanted to move her outside the question of how to make sense of the broken pieces of “someone” with a gun walking into a public space and then firing. There’s something called (I learned from a news report the day of the shootings at Virginia Tech) The Talking Day which refers to the day immediately following the day when something wildly violent happens. No one quite grasps the reality of the situation and everyone spends that first day talking about what happened and reliving it as language— not so much to understand the violence but to make a kind of recording of it: talking about it, letting go of it, putting it down. And so I imagine it must be with Liz and Lily and David in Binghamton, New York today: letting “something” go. Liz is in her car after having just picked up Lily at school and driving back home through a town that suddenly makes no sense and she is telling the story about what happened when a young man walked into a building with a gun. And for Lily, who’s had a pretty serene, un- violent United States time so far and whose endless joy has made her an adorable chatterbox, tomorrow could be her first talking day. Or, if not tomorrow, some other day. We live in a talking day world.

All right, I admit it: It was just a dream I had last night. I was trudging along a muddy path in a column of downcast men on the blackened outskirts of New York, the twilight dingy and ruined, the future without hope as we marched along in our soiled, proletarian rags. To my left was Mayakovsky, head shaved, and next to him his friend with gray beard and dark cap. "You've got to admit," Mayakovsky was saying, "that this is a pretty good way to write a poem." "Yes," I said, "the momentum is sustained by our walking forward, the desolate landscape seeps into every word, and you're free to say anything you want." "That's because we're inside the poem," he said, "not outside." Puddles of oily water gleamed dully beneath the low clouds. "That's why my poems were so big: there's more room inside." The hard line of his jaw flexed and the men dispersed. I followed his friend behind a wall to hear the poem go on in the lecture the friend was giving on history, but no, the real poem had finished. I went back to the spot where the poem had finished. Vladimir had left the poem.

Among the signs of autumn I perceive The Roman wormwood (called by learned men Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,— For to impartial science the humblest weed Is as immortal once as the proudest flower—) Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoes As I cross the now neglected garden. —We trample under foot the food of gods And spill their nectar in each drop of dew— My honest shoes, fast friends that never stray Far from my couch, thus powdered, countryfied, Bearing many a mile the marks of their adventure, At the post-house disgrace the Gallic gloss Of those well dressed ones who no morning dew Nor Roman wormwood ever have been through, Who never walk but are transported rather— For what old crime of theirs I do not gather.

After her pills the girl slept and counted Pellet on pellet the regress of life. Dead to the world, the world's count yet counted Pellet on pill the antinomies of life. Refused to turn, the way's back, she counted Her several stones across the mire of life. And stones away and sticks away she counted To keep herself out of the country of life. Lost tally. How the sheep return to home Is the story she will retrieve And the only story believe Of one and one the sheep returning home To take the shapes of life, Coming and being counted.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len'; To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen': What care I in riches to wallow, If I mauna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller, "Guid-day to you,"—brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the valentines' dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten: For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, "Tam Glen"! The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken: His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen! Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry; I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roarin fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride,— That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,— A better never lifted leg,— Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane: And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze: Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast: A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft— The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock. I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore. For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig: There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff her master hale But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear.

I thought I was so tough, But gentled at your hands, Cannot be quick enough To fly for you and show That when I go I go At your commands. Even in flight above I am no longer free: You seeled me with your love, I am blind to other birds— The habit of your words Has hooded me. As formerly, I wheel I hover and I twist, But only want the feel, In my possessive thought, Of catcher and of caught Upon your wrist. You but half civilize, Taming me in this way. Through having only eyes For you I fear to lose, I lose to keep, and choose Tamer as prey.

As usual, the first gate was modest. It is dilapidated. She can’t tell which bridge crossed the moat, which all cross sand now, disordered with footsteps. It’s a precise overlay of circles on squares, but she has trouble locating the main avenue and retraces her steps in intense heat for the correct entrance, which was intentionally blurred, the  way a round arch can give onto a red wall, far enough in back of the arch for sun to light. If being by yourself separates from your symmetry, which is the axis of your spine in the concrete sense, but becomes a suspension in your spine like a layer of sand under the paving stones of a courtyard or on a plain, you have to humbly seek out a person who can listen to you, on a street crowded with bicycles at night, their bells ringing. And any stick or straight line you hold can be your spine, like a map she is following in French of Tan Tien. She wants space to fall to each side of her like traction, not weight dispersed within a mirror. At any time, an echo of what she says will multiply against the walls in balanced, dizzying jumps like a gyroscope in the heat, but she is alone. Later, she would remember herself as a carved figure and its shadow on a blank board, but she is her balancing stick, and the ground to each side of her is its length, disordered once by an armored car, and once by an urn of flowers at a crossing. The stick isn’t really the temple’s bisection around her, like solstice or ancestor. This Tang Dynasty peach tree would be parallel levitation in the spine the person recording it. Slowly the hall looms up. The red stair’s outline gives way to its duration as it extends and rises at a low angle. In comparison to the family, the individual hardly counts, but they all wait for her at a teahouse inside the wall. First the gold knob, then blue tiers above the highest step, the same color as the sky. When one person came to gain confidence, she imagines he felt symmetry as flight after his fast among seven meteorites in the dark. He really felt like a globe revolving within a globe. Even the most singular or indivisible particle or heavenly sphere will adjust when the axis extending beyond itself is pushed, or the sphere it is within is pushed. What she thought was her balance flattens into a stylized dragon on the marble paving stones. Yet she’s reluctant to leave the compound. Only the emperor could walk its center line. Now, anyone can imagine how it felt to bring heaven news. She is trying to remember this in Hong Kong as the tram pulls suddenly above skyscrapers and the harbor and she flattens against her seat, like a reversal occurring in the poles, or what she meant by, no one can imagine how.

It was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers whose perfume broke through closed car windows, forced a blessing on their drivers. Then what stayed behind grew swollen, as we do; grew juice instead of tears, and small hard sour seeds, each one bitter, as we are, and filled with possibility. Now a hole opens up in its skin, where it was torn from the branch; ripeness can’t stop itself, breathes out; we can’t stop it either. We breathe in.

Where the blossoms fall like snow on the dock bring fifty thousand in cash or you’ll never see your baby again