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We gave our dogs a button to sniff, or a tissue, and they bounded off confident in their training, in the power of their senses to recreate the body, but after eighteen hours in rubble where even steel was pulverized they curled on themselves and stared up at us and in their soft huge eyes we saw mirrored the longing for death: then we had to beg a stranger to be a victim and crouch behind a girder, and let the dogs discover him and tug him proudly, with suppressed yaps, back to Command and the rows of empty triage tables. But who will hide from us? Who will keep digging for us here in the cloud of ashes?

With refreshments and some modesty and home-drawn maps, the ladies of the parish are marshaling the plans in hand, devising the occasions, in softest pencil: the Day of Hearsay, Leeway Week, the Maybe Pageant, a hustings on the word nearby. Half-promised rain roosts in some clouds a mile out, gradual weather making gradual notes on the green, the well, the monument, the mayor's yard where dogs purr on elastic. Everything taken by the smooth handle then, or about to be, hiatus sharp in humble fashion. A small boy spins one wheel of an upturned bike, the pond rises, full of skimmed stones on somehow days, not Spring, not Summer yet. Engagements are announced in the Chronicle, a nine-yard putt falls short. Dark cattle amble on the angles of Flat Field. The ladies close their plotting books and fill pink teacups, there or thereabouts.

A row of tall skinny candles burns quickly into the night air, the shames raised over the rest for its hard work. Darkness rushes in after the sun sinks like a bright plug pulled. Our eyes drown in night thick as ink pudding. When even the moon starves to a sliver of quicksilver the little candles poke holes in the blackness. A time to eat fat and oil, a time to gamble for pennies and gambol *shames: the middle candle that lights the others every night

I.  Spring We burst forth, crisp green squads bristling with spears. We encircle the pond. II.  Summer Brown velvet plumes bob jauntily. On command, our slim, waving arrows rush toward the sun. III.  Fall All red-winged generals desert us.  Courage clumps and fluffs like bursting pillows. IV. Winter Our feet are full of ice. Brown bones rattle in the wind. Sleeping, we dream of seed-scouts, sent on ahead.

Summer-long the gulls’ old umbra cry unraveled ease but certain waves went by, then by. The sky shook out the days. The seabirds’ hunger rose in rings, flung rock-clams to their shatterings, raked gullets full, the bone-bills scraped. High noon: oceans of time escaped. * All winter we slept benched together, breakers, sleepdrunk children in a car not conscious where they go. We kneaded bread, kept out the weather, while old suspicions huddled by the door, mice in the snow. * In spring, the leaving bloomed— oak leaf unfurled, a foot, resplendent vigorous, aching to shake loose but still dependent. One morning moongreen loaves rose into bones that rose to lift our skin like sleeves, our time together’s revenant. * Perennial fall, come cool the cliffs, bring quiet, sulfur, early dark. Represent as you must: dusk, dying, ends and row us into winter’s water: The body, wind-whipped, forms stiff peaks, ice settles in the marrow bone. At the chest, the live stone breaks against the beak, beak breaks against stone.

1 Clouds so thick they put down roots Young aspen practising quakers Incoming geese Periwinkle sign passports brings remission with a V of the blues Feel the sun butting the buds open Blossoms Trout lilies nod expand they know the sky they know Lilac a scent by which we mark the calendar Weather report May? showers By all means and fresh rainbows Yes. You May 2 Crickets ventriloquists of summer Loon cries increase the loneliness of lakes It’s untrue They leave that that bats to the silence make it darker of owls Morning warblers refresh the joy of hearing Comes the hedgehog And the bumblebee who lives on pins non-aerodynamic and needles existentialist Horses stand awash in the setting sun Anticipate Nighthawks if you can swoop the firefly’s flash gathering the evening 3 Prophetic winds fill the graveyard with signposts Then a scurry of stormspurred sparrows A lamentation of geese Hummingbird leaves in the early to cruise dusk the Carribean Squirrels pad their acorn accounts Cedar waxwing Blue jay insists feathered scholar it’s never too late knows his berries to scold Grackle predicts a turn for the worse Flies buzz in this cast-iron against the chill autumn pane stained with rust 4 Fly husks on sills reflect the year’s demise Ptarmigan advises “kuk-kuk-kuk go back-goback” Deer bundle Coyote lingers in the laurel to school us thickets in survival Fashionable spruce knows how to wear snow Strange angels Frostfeathers leave their three-D lace shadows the cabin glass Cabin Fever medicine runs low As Days does begin the woodpile to lengthen

As rising from the vegetable World My Theme ascends, with equal Wing ascend, My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods Invite you forth in all your gayest Trim. Lend me your Song, ye Nightingales! oh pour The mazy-running Soul of Melody Into my varied Verse! while I deduce, From the first Note the hollow Cuckoo sings, The Symphony of Spring, and touch a Theme Unknown to Fame, the Passion of the Groves. When first the Soul of Love is sent abroad, Warm thro the vital Air, and on the Heart Harmonious seizes, the gay Troops begin, In gallant Thought, to plume the painted Wing; And try again the long-forgotten Strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft Infusion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their Joy o’erflows In Musick unconfin’d. Up-springs the Lark, Shrill-voic’d, and loud, the Messenger of Morn; Ere yet the Shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning Clouds, and from their Haunts Calls up the tuneful Nations. Every Copse Deep-tangled, Tree irregular, and Bush Bending with dewy Moisture, o’er the Heads Of the coy Quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The Thrush And Wood-lark, o’er the kind contending Throng Superior heard, run thro’ the sweetest Length Of Notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in Thought Elate, to make her Night excel their Day. The Black-bird whistles from the thorny Brake; The mellow Bullfinch answers from the Grove: Nor are the Linnets, o’er the flow’ring Furze Pour’d out profusely, silent. Join’d to these Innumerous Songsters, in the freshening Shade Of new-sprung Leaves, their Modulations mix Mellifluous. The Jay, the Rook, the Daw, And each harsh Pipe discordant heard alone, Aid the full Concert: while the Stock-dove breathes A melancholy Murmur thro’ the whole. ’Tis Love creates their Melody, and all This Waste of Music is the Voice of Love; That even to Birds, and Beasts, the tender Arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive Love Can dictate, and in Courtship to their Mates Pour forth their little Souls. First, wide around, With distant Awe, in airy Rings they rove, Endeavouring by a thousand Tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted Glance Of their regardless Charmer. Should she seem Softening the least Approvance to bestow, Their Colours burnish, and by Hope inspir’d, They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, Retire disorder’d; then again approach; In fond rotation spread the spotted Wing, And shiver every Feather with Desire. Connubial Leagues agreed, to the deep Woods They haste away, all as their Fancy leads, Pleasure, or Food, or secret Safety prompts; That Nature’s great Command may be obey’d, Nor all the sweet Sensations they perceive Indulg’d in vain. Some to the Holly-Hedge Nestling repair, and to the Thicket some; Some to the rude Protection of the Thorn Commit their feeble Offspring. The cleft Tree Offers its kind Concealment to a Few, Their Food its Insects, and its Moss their Nests. Others apart far in the grassy Dale, Or roughening Waste, their humble Texture weave. But most in woodland Solitudes delight, In unfrequented Glooms, or shaggy Banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling Brook, Whose Murmurs soothe them all the live-long Day, When by kind Duty fix’d. Among the Roots Of Hazel, pendant o’er the plaintive Stream, They frame the first Foundation of their Domes; Dry Sprigs of Trees, in artful Fabrick laid, And bound with Clay together. Now ’tis nought But restless Hurry thro the busy Air, Beat by unnumer’d Wings. The Swallow sweeps The slimy Pool, to build his hanging House Intent. And often, from the careless Back Of Herds and Flocks, a thousand tugging Bills Pluck Hair and Wool; and oft, when unobserv’d, Steal from the Barn a Straw: till soft and warm, Clean, and compleat, their Habitation grows. As thus the patient Dam assiduous sits, Not to be tempted from her tender Task, Or by sharp Hunger, or by smooth Delight, Tho the whole loosen’d Spring around Her blows, Her sympathizing Lover takes his Stand High on th’ opponent Bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious Time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty Meal. Th’ appointed Time With pious Toil fulfill’d, the callow Young, Warm’d and expanded into perfect Life, Their brittle Bondage break, and come to Light, A helpless Family, demanding Food With constant Clamour. O what Passions then, What melting Sentiments of kindly Care, On the new Parents seize! Away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious Morsel to their Young, Which equally distributed, again The Search begins. Even so a gentle Pair, By Fortune sunk, but form’d of generous Mold, And charm’d with Cares beyond the vulgar Breast, In some lone Cott amid the distant Woods, Sustain’d alone by providential Heaven , Oft, as they weeping eye their infant Train, Check their own Appetites and give them all. Nor Toil alone they scorn: exalting Love, By the great Father of the Spring inspir’d, Gives instant Courage to the fearful Race, And to the simple Art. With stealthy Wing, Should some rude Foot their woody Haunts molest, Amid a neighbouring Bush they silent drop, And whirring thence, as if alarm’d, deceive Th’ unfeeling School-Boy. Hence, around the Head Of wandering Swain, the white-wing’d Plover wheels Her sounding Flight, and then directly on In long Excursion skims the level Lawn, To tempt him from her Nest. The Wild-Duck, hence, O’er the rough Moss, and o’er the trackless Waste The Heath-Hen flutters, (pious Fraud!) to lead The hot pursuing Spaniel far astray. Be not the Muse asham’d, here to bemoan Her Brothers of the Grove, by tyrant Man Inhuman caught, and in the narrow Cage From Liberty confin’d, and boundless Air. Dull are the pretty Slaves, their Plumage dull, Ragged, and all its brightening Lustre lost; Nor is that sprightly Wildness in their Notes, Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the Beech. Oh then, ye Friends of Love and Love-taught Song, Spare the soft Tribes, this barbarous Art forbear! If on your Bosom Innocence can win, Music engage, or Piety persuade. But let not chief the Nightingale lament Her ruin’d Care, too delicately fram’d To brook the harsh Confinement of the Cage. Oft when, returning with her loaded Bill, Th’ astonish’d Mother finds a vacant Nest, By the hard Hand of unrelenting Clowns Robb’d, to the Ground the vain Provision falls; Her Pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce Can bear the Mourner to the poplar Shade; Where, all abandon’d to Despair, she sings Her Sorrows thro the Night; and, on the Bough, Sole-sitting, still at every dying Fall Takes up again her lamentable Strain Of winding Woe; till wide around the Woods Sigh to her Song, and with her Wail resound. But now the feather’d Youth their former Bounds, Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their Wings, Demand the free Possession of the Sky. This one glad Office more, and then dissolves Parental Love at once, now needless grown. Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain. ’Tis on some Evening, sunny, grateful, mild, When nought but Balm is breathing thro the Woods, With yellow Lustre bright, that the new Tribes Visit the spacious Heavens, and look abroad On Nature’s Common, far as they can see, Or wing, their Range, and Pasture. O’er the Boughs Dancing about, still at the giddy Verge Their Resolution fails; their Pinions till, In loose Libration stretch’d, to trust the Void Trembling refuse: till down before them fly The Parent-Guides, and chide, exhort, command, Or push them off. The surging Air receives The Plumy Burden; and their self-taught Wings Winnow the waving Element. On Ground Alighted, bolder up again they lead, Farther and farther on, the lengthening Flight; Till vanish’d every Fear, and every Power Rouz’d into Life and Action, light in Air Th’ acquitted Parents see their soaring Race, And once rejoicing never know them more.

It was a blessèd time we were at the beach Go out early in the morning no shoes no hats no ties And quick as a toad’s tongue can reach Love wounded the hearts of the mad and the wise Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was a military man Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was an artiman In the war It was a blessèd time At mail call We are squeezed in tighter than on a bus And the stars passing by were mimicked by the shells In the night when the cannons came rolling up Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was a military man Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was an artiman In the war It was a blessèd time Days and nights blending The stew-pot shells gave our trench dugout Aluminum shrapnel that you set about Smoothing all day into an unlikely ring Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was a military man Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was an artiman In the war It was a blessèd time The war goes on The Gunners have filed for part of a year Safe in the woods the Driver can hear An unknown star repeating a song Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was a military man Did you know Guy when he galloped along When he was an artiman In the war Translated from the French

Seawater stiffens cloth long after it’s dried. As pain after it’s ended stays in the body: A woman moves her hands oddly because her grandfather passed through a place he never spoke of. Making instead the old jokes with angled fingers. Call one thing another’s name long enough, it will answer. Call pain seawater, tree, it will answer. Call it a tree whose shape of   branches happened. Call what branching happened a man whose job it was to break fingers or lose his own. Call fingers angled like branches what peel and cut apples, to give to a girl who eats them in silence, looking. Call her afterward tree, call her seawater angled by silence.

When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, erelong From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart.