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Silent Silent Night Quench the holy light Of thy torches bright For possessd of Day Thousand spirits stray That sweet joys betray Why should joys be sweet Used with deceit Nor with sorrows meet But an honest joy Does itself destroy For a harlot coy

And ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride, Nor think o’ Donald mair. O wha wad buy a silken goun Wi’ a poor broken heart! Or what’s to me a siller croun, Gin frae my love I part! The mind wha’s every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I’m forc’d to break my faith, I’ll lay me down an’ dee! For I hae pledg’d my virgin troth Brave Donald’s fate to share; And he has gi’en to me his heart, Wi’ a’ its virtues rare. His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu’ took the gift; Could I but think to seek it back, It wad be waur than theft! For langest life can ne’er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I’m forc’d to break my troth, I’ll lay me doun an’ dee.

Our teacher gave detention to the fountains in the hall. She handed extra homework to the artwork on the wall. We saw her point a finger at a banner and a sign. She said their bad behavior was completely out of line. The principal approached her and said, “What is all this fuss? I heard you tried to punish all the tires on a bus. “You’ve made the teachers angry by disrupting all their classes, so if you want to keep this job, you have to wear your glasses!”

An obituary has more news than this day, brilliant, acid yellow and silver off the water at land’s end. The disparate prismatic things blind you as they fin their way across the surface of the water. This light cannot inform you of your dying. Fish of lustrous nothing, fish of desire, fish whose push and syllable can make things happen, fish whose ecstatic hunger is no longer news, and fish whose mouth zeroes the multitudes, the hosts who wait for their analogies and something nice to eat, the billions the waves commemorate in their breaking down to their knees on the shore, their cloacal sound. Now how can I stay singular? How can even ore part die when I split and split like the smallest animal in the ocean until I’m famous in my dismemberment, splendid in my hunger, and anonymous— so that naming one is like naming one runnel the sea, or one drop of blood the intoxicating passion? I keep the multitudes in mind when I hear daily that one has murdered another. A news more silver than given, more light than anything captured. And I hold them all in mind—the fulgence, the data, and the death, or else I lose it, that package of slippery fish, that don’t die exactly but smell in a heaven so low we can hear the moans and feel the circles and bite in each cell.

I killed a great silver fish, cut him open with a long thin knife. The river carried his heart away. I took his dead eyes home. His red flesh sang to me on the fire I built in my backyard. His taste was the lost memory of my wildness. Behind amber clouds of cedar smoke, Orion drew his bow. A black moon rose from the night’s dark waters, a sliver of its bright face reflecting back into the universe.

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights of early spring, and quiet again. Will speech disturb you? We're alone now; we have no reason for silence. Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises. I won't see the next full moon. In spring, when the moon rose, it meant time was endless. Snowdrops opened and closed, the clustered seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts. White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree. And in the crook, where the tree divides, leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight soft greenish-silver. We have come too far together toward the end now to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain I know what the end means. And you, who've been with a man— after the first cries, doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?

The strings, as if they knew the lovers are about to meet, begin to soar, and when he marches in the door they soar some more—half ecstasy, half pain, the musical equivalent of rain— while children who have grown up with one stare steal further looks across a crowded room, as goners tend to do. My father loved it too, warned me at dinner that he’d be a wreck long before the final trio came (Ja,ja, she sighed, and gave him up forever); he found his Sophie better late than never and took the fifth about his silent tears but like him I’m a softie, with a massive gift for feeling blue. I went with others, threw bouquets and caution to the whirling wind, believing that the rhapsody on stage would waft its wonders up to our cheap seats; but mirrors can be beautiful fierce cheats, delusions of an over-smitten mind; I relished trouser roles until I had no petals left to strew. Up, down the avenue I wandered like a ghost, I wondered why a miracle is always a mirage, then plodded home and set back all the clocks, spent hard-won funds installing strong new locks, telling myself if violence like this could never sound like violins, I would to art, not life, be true. And I am trying to fathom the way I got from there to here, the joy that snuck up when I’d sworn off joy: we’ve made a sterling start, we’ve got a plan to watch it on your satin couch downtown and I’ll be there upon the stroke of eight, bearing in my trembling ungloved hand a silver rose for you.

I let my body down slow which is what they say to do, like a whale with its breathing and floating in the ocean. Yesterday was the half moon and today was basically the half moon too. A glacier’s blue and water in the middle of a lake is blue. I only had one day during which I could get myself out into the middle of it and I did, kudos to me. And to the resilient goose who never feels cold And to the talky crow who has so many friends And to the inspiring stealthy ducks who fly together in clips above water. It’s a silly betrayal of my own thoughts to invent or remember, so maybe I’ll just close with these tender lines of Henry David Thoreau: “An oak tree in Hubbard’s Passage stands absolutely motionless and dark against the sky.”

The silver swan, who living had no note, When death approached, unlocked her silent throat; Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more: “Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes; More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”

There was once a little animal, No bigger than a fox, And on five toes he scampered Over Tertiary rocks. They called him Eohippus, And they called him very small, And they thought him of no value -- When they thought of him at all; For the lumpish old Dinoceras And Coryphodon so slow Were the heavy aristocracy In days of long ago. Said the little Eohippus, “I am going to be a horse! And on my middle finger-nails To run my earthly course! I’m going to have a flowing tail! I’m going to have a mane! I’m going to stand fourteen hands high On the psychozoic plain!” The Coryphodon was horrified, The Dinoceras was shocked; And they chased young Eohippus, But he skipped away and mocked. Then they laughed enormous laughter, And they groaned enormous groans. And they bade young Eohippus Go view his father’s bones. Said they, “You always were as small And mean as now we see, And that’s conclusive evidence That you’re always going to be. What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast, With hoofs to gallop on? Why! You’d have to change your nature! Said the Loxolophodon. They considered him disposed of, And retired with gait serene; That was the way they argued In “the early Eocene”. There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, Far smarter than the rest, And everything that they could do He always did the best; So they naturally disliked him And they gave him shoulders cool, And when they had to mention him They said he was a fool. Cried this pretentious Ape one day, “I’m going to be a man! And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, And conquer all I can! I’m going to cut down forest trees, To make my houses higher! I’m going to kill the Mastodon! I’m going to make a fire!” Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes With laughter wild and gay; They tried to catch that boastful one, But he always got away. So they yelled at him in chorus, Which he minded not a whit; And they pelted him with cocoanuts, Which didn’t seem to hit. And then they gave him reasons Which they thought of much avail, To prove how his preposterous Attempt was sure to fail. Said the sages, “In the first place, The thing cannot be done! And, second, if it could be, It would not be any fun! And, third, and most conclusive, And admitting no reply, You would have to change your nature! We should like to see you try!” They chuckled then triumphantly, These lean and hairy shapes, For these things passed as arguments With the Anthropoidal Apes. There was once a Neolithic Man, An enterprising wight, Who made his chopping implements Unusually bright. Unusually clever he, Unusually brave, And he drew delightful Mammoths On the borders of his cave. To his Neolithic neighbours, Who were startled and surprised, Said he, “My friends, in course of time, We shall be civilized! We are going to live in cities! We are going to fight in wars! We are going to eat three times a day Without the natural cause! We are going to turn life upside down About a thing called gold! We are going to want the earth, and take As much as we can hold! We are going to wear great piles of stuff Outside our proper skins! We are going to have Diseases! And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!” Then they all rose up in fury Against their boastful friend, For prehistoric patience Cometh quickly to an end. Said one, “This is chimerical! Utopian! Absurd!” Said another, “What a stupid life! Too dull, upon my word!” Cried all, Before such things can come, You idiotic child, You must alter Human Nature! ” And they all sat back and smiled. Thought they, “An answer to that last It will be hard to find!” It was a clinching argument To the Neolithic Mind!