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AUTUMN gold of amber red of ember brown of umber all September MCCOY CREEK Over the bright shallows now no flights of swallows. Leaves of the sheltering willow dangle thin and yellow. OCTOBER At four in the morning the west wind moved in the leaves of the beech tree with a long rush and patter of water, first wave of the dark tide coming in. SOLSTICE On the longest night of all the year in the forests up the hill, the little owl spoke soft and clear to bid the night be longer still. THE WINDS OF MAY are soft and restless in their leafy garments that rustle and sway making every moment movement. HAIL The dogwood cowered under the thunder and the lilacs burned like light itself against the storm-black sky until the hail whitened the grass with petals.

1 Desert heat, high clouds, and sky the color of lapis. On this journey, anything seems possible, so we stop by an ancient cottonwood to kiss. The beauty trembles, doesn't say a word, just watches me, so open. Small birds fly by, flock in the shady tree above us. What settles in her heart? What congeals? Hope? Despair? Far off, the river churns in its sandy banks, swallows veer, turn in fiery air. Will these kisses seal her to me? I her lover, she my wife? Is all of this a dream, my whole life? 2 She is just this side of wonderful, and suddenly the glamorous world fills itself with shining and we laugh at highway monuments that explain how hard the trek had been for Franciscans in the Indian wilderness, poor fellows— conversion is the devil's own work! Then the stones of her dream turn up under her feet, the back of a huge land turtle. I know we must be circling Paradise because the ants enter the fleshy petals of the roadside flowers with evident joy and purpose (oh, my dark, pretty one). 3 Music, my adored. When is there never music? My accordion puffs up with drinkable melodies. I spill her tunes into your listening ear, one after the other: the squeeze-box enters the dance of the plaintive gypsy with its hard rhythms, lilts the back- breaking labor song the worker croons to earth, warbles romantic notes of dissolving borders. You melt like a woman beneath her lover's touch. Music is happy and pitiless when it sets fire to combustible souls. Even the raspy bandoneon's voice is lyric. 4 Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. (Speak in a whisper.) We slip into this space half cognizant. The land is very large indeed: bones of the earth worn down, though she is a living thing. See how she exposes her grace? Antelopes graze on the far plain—their high, white tails—the red soil throbs its slow heartbeat, and the blue sky clears so smartly, perfectly, like radiance. Are the ancestors near? What can we know? We decide to wander around this prairie, mistaken for Utes, buy commodities in little towns. 5 Late afternoon we head west along the willow-banked Malheur after the long curve of the Snake River plain. (Above the falls where the Shoshone went to pray we soaked our feet in cold water, and I observed the arch of her brown foot.) Rabbitbrush and sage along the highway, juniper on far hills and bluffs. Sundown, and dusk falls over the wide basin of land. In Burns we eat eggs in a cafe, take a room in the Motel 6. In the dark, I can see her black hair, black against the pillows. Its clean scent makes me think of corn. At dawn, I hold her and there are kisses. Then more kisses. Then more. The day is cold; a north wind blew last night. But the land is open. Rain falls in showers of light. 6 Her hand on my thigh, my shoulder, in my hair. She leans over to kiss my cheek. We look at each other, smile. For miles we travel this way, nearly silent, point with eyes or chins at the circling hawk, the king- fisher on the snag above the swollen creek. One night I weep in her arms as she cries,"Oh, oh, oh!" because I have touched her scars lightly: throat, belly, breasts. In that communion of lovers, thick sobs break from me as I think of my love back home, all that I have done and cannot say. This is the first time I have left her so completely, so alone.

O but we talked at large before The sixteen men were shot, But who can talk of give and take, What should be and what not While those dead men are loitering there To stir the boiling pot? You say that we should still the land Till Germany’s overcome; But who is there to argue that Now Pearse is deaf and dumb? And is their logic to outweigh MacDonagh’s bony thumb? How could you dream they’d listen That have an ear alone For those new comrades they have found, Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone, Or meddle with our give and take That converse bone to bone?

How much greener is paint than grass, especially in winter.

We didn’t like each other, but Lynn’s mother had died, and my father had died. Lynn’s father didn’t know how to talk to her, my mother didn’t know how to talk to me, and Lynn and I didn’t know how to talk either. A secret game drew us close: we took turns being the prisoner, who stood, hands held behind her back, while the captor, using an imaginary bow, shot arrow after arrow after arrow into the prisoner’s heart.

Fifty was poignant, heavy pear departs the tree and the poem a sigh between branch and mulch. But no more. Another decade, I’m all song and scruff, the mind’s hot wire threading joint to joint. I’ll tell you straight out what I think, no sweetener. Nor has Aphrodite left me collapsed in a stairwell and don’t you father-flirt me, girl. This morning the world unbelts her robe, rose fleshed and randy. I like the rats that skitter under the subway’s hot rails. The little black dog who’s afraid of no one, not even the dope dealer’s pitbulls. Montaigne said sickness is God’s way of weaning us from life but I don’t think yet. I like the way soul clings to gristle like a newspaper wrapped around a light pole in a storm. Death’s a street away walking parallel and at my pace. He gets a nod.

the Venetian blinds I dusted off for my mother on Saturday mornings, closing, opening them with the pull cord a few times just to watch the outside universe keep blinking, as the flock suddenly rises from November stubble, hovers a few seconds, closing, opening, blinking, before it tilts, then vanishes over a hill.

“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?” Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart’s chamber. “I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man’s curse; For this I sought thee. “Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic’s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. “Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf’s bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. “But when I older grew, Joining a corsair’s crew, O’er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. “Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk’s tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o’erflowing. “Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. “I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest’s shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. “Bright in her father’s hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter’s hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. “While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. “She was a Prince’s child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew’s flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? “Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. “Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. “And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, ‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail, ‘Death without quarter!’ Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! “As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, — So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. “Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o’er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady’s bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. “There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden’s tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne’er shall the sun arise On such another! “Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! “Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!” Thus the tale ended.

So déjame contarte un cuento, una historia es que lluvia    rain       agh       what’s the word                     tey tey at?                       eltiw? Ateltiw? Last night, Atelti came after class. Siempre sabes when she’s here because you hear hail on the windows, the flapping of the leaves, las hojas, ne iswat AND ne kwajkwawit, los árboles, trees I figure I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that she visited seeing how dark I was, un ichan of  negro, of  zájtik. And zájtik isn’t bad. Sometimes it brings rainbows, arco irises, kusamalut Atelti told me something she heard in El Salvador, algo de mis abuelos y abuelas, both alive and dead Ne muyut shipanu sempa pal ne kali pal ne takamet, siwatket, Ajkawat ne neshti ka ne ejekat tik ne weytepet, ne tiupan, Ne ilwikat, ken titajtani — tzalan ne ashal, ne apan, ne ujti The fly enters every house of man, woman leaving ashes to wind for the volcano, church Sky, how do you ask — in between sand, river, road So what does it mean? Where’s the answer at the end? The moral? The hail rattling outside: clattaraka araka araka araka araka — cla ttaraka taraka taraka taraka taraka taraka ka ka ka kuh kuh and me without my raincoat. “Don’t be outside by the time I leave,” I said. “Y qué,” she said as more hail hit the windows, a few pellets falling onto the carpet inside. And it continued. And she added some rain a bit after. When it was time to leave I stepped outside it still rained and was offered an umbrella to the car which I refused. Mi hermana, Atelti, was there to stay. So I thought, “Get   wet. If  you’re so desperate Talk Dígame” And she rained And vapor seeped out from my buttons

Balmy overcast nights of late September; Palms standing out in street light, house light; Full moon penetrating the cloud-film With an explosive halo, a ring almost half the sky; Air like a towel draped over shoulders; Lightness or gravity deferred like a moral question; The incense in the house lit; the young people Moving from the front door into the half-dark And back, or up the stairs to glimpse the lovers’ shoes Outside the master bedroom; the youngest speculating; The taste of beer, familiar as salt water; Each window holding a sea view, charcoal With shifting bars of white; the fog filling in Like the haze of distance itself, pushing close, blurring. As if the passage into life were through such houses, Surrounded by some version of ocean weather, Lit beads of fog or wind so stripped it burns the throat; Mildew-spreading, spray-laden breezes and the beach sun Making each grain of stucco cast a shadow; An ideal landscape sheared of its nostalgia; S. with his black hair, buck teeth, unsunned skin, Joking and disappearing; F. doing exactly the same But dying, a corkscrew motion through green water; And C. not looking back from the car door, Reappearing beside the East River, rich, owned, smiling at last. Swains. and nymphs. And news that came with the sea damp, Of steady pipe-corrosions, black corners, Moisture working through sand lots, through slab floors, Slowly, with chemical, with molecular intricacy, Then, bursting alive: the shrieked confessions Of the wild parents; the cliff collapse; the kidnap; The cache of photos; the letter; the weapon; the haunted dream; The sudden close-up of the loved one’s degradation. Weather a part of it all, permeating and sanctifying, Infiltrating and destroying; the sun disc, Cool behind the veil of afternoon cloud, With sun spots like flies crawling across it; The slow empurpling of skin all summer; The glorious learned flesh and the rich pallor Of the untouched places in the first nakedness; The working of the lesion now in late life, Soon to be known by the body, even the one Enduring the bareness of the inland plains, The cold fronts out of Canada, a sickness For home that feels no different from health.