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Despite all their fervor     they were headed somewhere   limp   in the intellect     nursery rhyme dialect headed   somewhere   all   circumference     hunnid   something for Sumerian   tablet happy meals   where you get     to munch   the   code-cold   sun upfront     the rest   when you’ve     eaten a bit of rat flesh   in the shape of yesterday     perishing youth addiction : Future dreams of codeine nibbles the white nipple wedged between him and his     soul   stice staaay sis what is this?     passes out     on the battlefield, improviser  /    wisest man I ever   mumbled   alongside     Power   with all the wars   in it ain’t shit     in   a   flawed   system     besides   self-destruction   may all our enemies   become powerful   and empty   in the west   while we sell our bodies   these   mumbled   prayers codeine   ain’t got nothin to   do     with my   love, child   either labor in the holds was painless bled ’til the chains lost their grip and there are   tapes   to prove it

One spring day I saw the shadow of a strawberry tree lying on the moor like a shy lamb asleep. Its heart was far away, suspended in the sky, brown in a brown veil, in the sun’s eye. The shadow played in the wind, moving there alone to make the tree content. Here and there it shone. It knew no pain, no haste, wanting only to feel morning, then noon, then the slow-paced journey of evening. Among all the shadows always joining eternal shadow, shrouding the earth in falseness, I loved this steady shadow. And thus, at times, it descends among us, this meek semblance, and lies down, as if drained, in grass and in patience.

A vision as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow; Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets; Tolling of bells in turrets, and below Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets! This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; — Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.

God put his finger on my sacrum and he lifted me, he set me in the center of the universe, the curious desire of my chronically lonely life. It was cold and dark and lonely and I was scared. There were no accessories. I burst into tears over nothing. What would Jimmy Schuyler do? wwjsd ? And as quietly as the sound of Kleenex being pulled from a box, I sneezed. And morning, that goddess, as if she were slightly deaf, barely lifted her head off the horizon before laying back down. And a rose opened her portals and the scent ran up an elephant’s trunk, or tried to. Such a long way for everything to travel! From here I look like a front moving in An icy purple light a poet would say belonged to a perfume stopper belonging to his mother. When it was her nipple. You know, neither in the past or in the future.

Shall I wasting in despair Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May— If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her merits' value known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best; If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?

In the longer view it doesn’t matter. However, it’s that having lived, it matters. So that every death breaks you apart. You find yourself weeping at the door of your own kitchen, overwhelmed by loss. And you find yourself weeping as you pass the homeless person head in hands resigned on a cement step, the wire basket on wheels right there. Like stopped film, or a line of Vallejo, or a sketch of the mechanics of a wing by Leonardo. All pauses in space, a violent compression of meaning in an instant within the meaningless. Even staring into the dim shapes at the farthest edge; accepting that blur.

The first four leaders had broken knees The four old dams had broken knees The flock would start to run, then freeze The first four leaders had broken knees ‘Why is the flock so docile?’ asked the hawk. ‘Yes, why is the flock so docile,’ laughed the dog, ‘The shepherd’s mallet is in his hand, The shepherd’s hand is on the land, The flock will start to run, then freeze— The four old dams have broken knees,’ The dog explained. The hawk exclaimed: ‘The shepherd leads an easy life!’ ‘I know, I know,’ cried the shepherd’s wife, ‘He dresses me out in a narrow skirt and leaves me home to clean his dirt. Whenever I try to run, I freeze— All the old dams have broken knees.’ ‘Well, I’m so glad he doesn’t dare to bring his breaking power to bear on me,’ said the hawk, flying into the sun; while the dog warned, in his dog run: ‘Hawk—the shepherd has bought a gun!’ ‘Why is the hawk so docile?’ asked the flock, ‘He fell to the ground in a feathery breeze; He lies in a dumb lump under the trees, We believe we’d rather have broken knees Than lose our blood and suddenly freeze Like him.’ But the oldest dam gave her leg a lick, And said, ‘Some die slow and some die quick, A few run away and the rest crawl, But the shepherd never dies at all— Damn his soul. I’d will my wool to the shepherd’s wife If she could change the shepherd’s life, But I myself would bring him low If only,only I knew how.’

nodding tho' the lamps lit low nodding for passers underground to and fro she's darning and the yarn is weeping red and pale marking the train stops from algiers sleeping tho' the eyes are pale hums in rhythum w/a bonnet on lullaby a broken song the sifting-cloth is bleeding red weeping yarn from algiers lullaby tho' baby's gone the cradle rocks a barren song she's rocking w/her ribbons on she's rocking yarn and needles oh it's long coming from algiers

After I found out that you were a sheep, it was always afternoon, and I stood trembling at the pasture fence, my hands full of dandelion and the longer grasses. How could I call you to come near? We had no names and only this place, this sun, the hill and its limitless sky held together by your gentle outline as you leaned toward tufts of grass. How beautiful you were, so still, so close to moving. I gathered bouquets of clover, strung violets from the fence slats. Sometimes I whispered, but the words disappeared before I knew what they were or what they meant. Once I saw darkness. I remember my eyes were open and there was nothing, only black, and my heart aching as I felt for my face and I was still human. While I cried, stars came and traced sheep in the sky and the voice that knew never spoke. I fell asleep mistaking the scent of hay for your breath. To wake once from the sleep in which you are held, in which your name emanates without utterance from the being that cradles you—There is no other sleep. Now it is always afternoon. How can I call you when we have no names? I search for the clover and violets. There are always enough. My shadow is always the same length and shaped with arms and legs. Between us, the distance of field is green and exact; the sun gleams from its cloudless height—I know that there is enough time, that there is always enough. Please. Come to me, remember me: undo this world.

I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest— then you retrace your steps, or find the same slope on the other side, precipitate. I have had enough— border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies, herbs, sweet-cress. O for some sharp swish of a branch— there is no scent of resin in this place, no taste of bark, of coarse weeds, aromatic, astringent— only border on border of scented pinks. Have you seen fruit under cover that wanted light— pears wadded in cloth, protected from the frost, melons, almost ripe, smothered in straw? Why not let the pears cling to the empty branch? All your coaxing will only make a bitter fruit— let them cling, ripen of themselves, test their own worth, nipped, shrivelled by the frost, to fall at last but fair with a russet coat. Or the melon— let it bleach yellow in the winter light, even tart to the taste— it is better to taste of frost— the exquisite frost— than of wadding and of dead grass. For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life. I want wind to break, scatter these pink-stalks, snap off their spiced heads, fling them about with dead leaves— spread the paths with twigs, limbs broken off, trail great pine branches, hurled from some far wood right across the melon-patch, break pear and quince— leave half-trees, torn, twisted but showing the fight was valiant. O to blot out this garden to forget, to find a new beauty in some terrible wind-tortured place.