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At that time the sheep called to him From their wormy bellies, as they Lay bloating in the field. He was A pastoralist, The schoolhouse hardly handsize In a sky of flax. He began Then to keep the sayings of man (The left hand writing; the right hand Crossing out) farming the time by day With a great rake And in the evening hearing myths Of the hurricane and the tornado (Straws driven through glass), And of the waking in the grave (The sharp hands of brothers buried Together). In the deep night the rat- Traps in the seed room broke the rat's Back, and the rat called to him in The next room over in a penetrating Eloquent way. In the parlor it was Always deep night where the separated Organs of the living slept in jars (The lank goiter and the rotted Appendix) awaiting the end-time When the emasculated ram will rise In the flax-blue sky (Cold as the final bluing of a Sunday wash) And all of us will know The use in beauty of the whole body. In the hay field was the beginning Of knowledge: Sour wine, the great rake hoisted Toward the high sun-altar of the stack And the hoist rope hauled out hard (Like a greased whip of which the stories Told were of the severing of limbs) By two staggering teams—and the whole Sun in its extreme tower of noon. All he heard was violent and sad But he kept on writing the sayings Of man with his left hand, and sent Them off in broken words, and waited In the mortal field Listening to the mice in the bottom Of the stack. Now though the schoolhouse Hangs like a stone over the field Robed in its winding sheet as blue as air, The shepherd hand of eloquence still keeps And flashes Out the sayings of the man— And the other (the right hand of Obliterating habit) sleeps.

Remember when you love, from that same hour Your peace you put into your lover’s power; From that same hour from him you laws receive, And as he shall ordain, you joy, or grieve, Hope, fear, laugh, weep; Reason aloof does stand, Disabled both to act, and to command. Oh cruel fetters! rather wish to feel On your soft limbs, the galling weight of steel; Rather to bloody wounds oppose your breast. No ill, by which the body can be pressed You will so sensible a torment find As shackles on your captived mind. The mind from heaven its high descent did draw, And brooks uneasily any other law Than what from Reason dictated shall be. Reason, a kind of innate deity, Which only can adapt to ev’ry soul A yoke so fit and light, that the control All liberty excels; so sweet a sway, The same ’tis to be happy, and obey; Commands so wise, and with rewards so dressed, That the according soul replies “I’m blessed.”

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too. I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother. It's so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

I Here is your eye. Here are the alleles which give color to your eye, the mixed routes of reference, the million times more than anybody could ever be missed. Flock. The idea of flock. Hundreds of agitated birds swooping over the bridge. Our blessèd moments. Shapes of soft parts, a quantifiable relation to objects, we turn now to your vitreous humor. Shut the lights off, turn the meat down, cover your head. I started doing my duty. Graphs of a dancer’s movements. Ten sections of a neural issue. As from air to the cornea. Who in the person is larval or asexual. Who in the person will sit in. Hachure. A parallel walk. From one density to a different density. I was you, once. Come, come, under your skin. In the body receiving itself or its analogies. The my. The bow down before you. White pine to white pine. White pine to redwing to lantern fish. II She was full. She was full with it. III and then though through though and then through the loop just made IV Believe it or not I would swap his desire to see patterns gathering. Believe it or not we set off several long-haired bodies. Believe it or not that was the whole of our aestivation. Believe it or not stop talking about me as if I were not in the room. Pop open a new one. The developing figure was a monk bent over. Come allow us to see the sower sow. She contested the waters. Get thee behind. Something in her eye kept giving you the needle. Something in her eye kept falling out of line. Believe it or not three persons in one shadow. Believe it or not could you spare a mind. It clawed each thing as if a temporal sequence. It clawed each thing as if a temporal w/hole. Believe it or not six or eight ways of counting on your reticence. Believe it or not these long thin rods and the wider cones.

On reading Susanne K. Langer’s Mind If  leaf-trash chokes the stream-bed, reach for rock-bottom as you rake the muck out. Let it slump dank, and dry fading, flat above the bank. Stand back. Watch the water vault ahead. Its thrust sweeps the surface clean, shores the debris, as it debrides its stone path to the lake, clarity carrying clarity. To see clear, resist the drag of  images. Take nature as it is, not Dame nor Kind. Act in events; touch what you name. Abhor easy obverts of natural metaphor. Let human speech breathe out its best poor bridges from mind to world, mind to self, mind to mind. Yet, I admit the event of the wood thrush: In a footnote Langer (her book rapids-clean like the spring-water aired over sleeked rock) says she witnessed an August bird in shock when a hawk snatched its mate. It perched, rushed notes fluting two life-quotas in one flood, its lungs pushing its voice, flushing the keen calls, pumped out as the heart pumps blood, not in twilight or warning but noon & wrong, its old notes whistled too fast but accurate. I read this drenched in bird-panic, its spine- fusing loss all song, all loss; that loss mine awash in unanswered unanswered song. And I cannot claim we are not desolate.

Hirto corde gigni quosdam homines proditur, neque alios fortioris esse industriae, sicut Aristomenen Messenium qui trecentos occidit Lacedaemonios ... —Plinii, Naturalis Historia XI. Ixx. The guards sleep they breathe uneven Conversation with the Trees the sharp cicadas And knots of pine the flames Have stirred to talk: their light Shows him rolling in his bonds As if he dragged his bones Again beyond a tall And ghosted mist of blood; He took three hundred lives And will not give his own for capture Even. The smell of searing Hemp and flesh startles As the scream of birds— Should wake the guards of men Or dead. The fire flares and frames A running giant his wrists Caught between his thighs; A burned and awkward god. Once he tried the foxes’ Paths out of the shattered quarry. No way now. One may Kill his hundreds; still No way. How can he live Without his heart. Throw him To the ground and prepare knives! Do they by their hate Or wonder break the breast He shut to fear? Mock Or pray as they cut flesh Crush ribs and lay all open To the alien chill of air? No scream tears From him; the tiny veins Along his eyelid swell And pools of sweat gather at its corners. But they do not see his Slowly swinging eyes. They watch his heart; its brown Hair is whorled and dry.

For Max Rojas Once a month when the moon loses everything, Don Max takes a chair to the edge of the sea. Black sand beach & green-backed heron. The moon casts off her milkglass earrings. I am nothing, she says, but black & white. I keep losing my face. Don Max feels for his pipe in his pocket. Takes it, knocks it against his palm. I am old! She cries. I get gooseflesh in the dark. Don Max is looking for his tobacco. Don Max has found a match. You don’t know how hard it is to come back from nothing. Don Max smiles & lights up. I keep making the same mistakes, she says. I think you should leave me, she says. Through smoke, she watches Don Max fold a strip of seaweed into a grasshopper. Leave me for your own good! She demands. Don Max has set the grasshopper in the sand. Besides, I am too beautiful. She speaks it as though it makes her sad. I’ll find other lovers. I will forget you.

Pacience is a poynt, Þa 3 hit displese ofte. When heuy herttes ben hurt wyth heÞyng oÞer elles, Suffraunce may aswag[en] hem & Þe swleme leÞe, For ho quelles vche a qued & quenches malyce; For quoso suffer cowÞe syt, sele wolde fol 3 e, & quo for Þro may no 3 t Þole, Þe Þikker he sufferes. Þen is better to abyde Þe bur vmbestoundes Þen ay Þrow forth my Þro, Þa 3 me Þynk ylle. I herde on a halyday, at a hy 3 e masse, How Mathew melede Þat his Mayster His meyny con teche. A 3 t happes He hem hy 3 t & vcheon a mede, Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse: Thay arn happen Þat han in hert pouerte, For hores is Þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer; Þay ar happen also Þat haunte mekenesse, For Þay schal welde Þis worlde & alle her wylle haue; Thay ar happen also Þat for her harme wepes, For Þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony; Þay ar happen also Þat hungeres after ry 3 t, For Þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode; Thay ar happen also Þat han in hert rauÞe, For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worÞe; Þay ar happen also Þat arn of hert clene, For Þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y 3 en; Thay ar happen also Þat halden her pese, For Þay Þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called; Þay ar happen also Þat con her hert stere, For hores is Þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde. These arn Þe happes alle a 3 t Þat vus bihy 3 t weren, If we Þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of Þewes: Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce Þe Þrydde, Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse, & Þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in Þerafter. He were happen Þat hade one; alle were Þe better. Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt Þat pouerte hatte, I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boÞe, For in Þe tyxte Þere Þyse two arn in teme layde, Hit arn fettled in on forme, Þe forme & Þe laste, & by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede. & als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde: For Þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter, Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oÞer greme; & Þereas pouert enpresses, Þa 3 mon pyne Þynk, Much, maugre his mun, he mot nede suffer; Thus pouerte & pacyence arn nedes playferes. SyÞen I am sette with hem samen, suffer me byhoues; Þenne is me ly 3 tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse, Þenne wyÞer wyth & be wroth & Þe wers haue. 3 if me be dy 3 t a destyne due to haue, What dowes me Þe dedayn, oÞer dispit make? OÞer 3 if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde OÞer to ryde oÞer to renne to Rome in his ernde, What grayÞed me Þe grychchyng bot grame more seche? Much 3 if he me ne made, maugref my chekes, & Þenne Þrat moste I Þole & vnÞonk to mede, Þe had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure. Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle? To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches. Wyl 3 e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle, I schal wysse yow Þerwyth as holy wryt telles. Hit bitydde sumtyme in Þe termes of Jude, Jonas joyned watz Þerinne Jentyle prophete; Goddes glam to hym glod Þat hym vnglad made, With a roghlych rurd rowned in his ere: 'Rys radly,' He says, '& rayke forth euen; Nym Þe way to Nynyue wythouten oÞer speche, & in Þat cete My sa 3 es soghe alle aboute, Þat in Þat place, at Þe poynt, I put in Þi hert. For iwysse hit arn so wykke Þat in Þat won dowellez & her malys is so much, I may not abide, Bot venge Me on her vilanye & venym bilyue; Now swe 3 e Me Þider swyftly & say Me Þis arende.' When Þat steuen watz stynt Þat stown[e]d his mynde, Al he wrathed in his wyt, & wyÞerly he Þo 3 t: 'If I bowe to His bode & bryng hem Þis tale, & I be nummen in Nuniue, my nyes begynes: He telles me Þose traytoures arn typped schrewes; I com wyth Þose tyÞynges, Þay ta me bylyue, Pynez me in a prysoun, put me in stokkes, WryÞe me in a warlok, wrast out myn y 3 en. Þis is a meruayl message a man for to preche Amonge enmyes so mony & mansed fendes, Bot if my gaynlych God such gref to me wolde, Fo[r] desert of sum sake Þat I slayn were. At alle peryles,' quoÞ Þe prophete, 'I aproche hit no nerre. I wyl me sum oÞer waye Þat He ne wayte after; I schal tee into Tarce & tary Þere a whyle, & ly 3 tly when I am lest He letes me alone.' Þenne he ryses radly & raykes bilyue, Jonas toward port Japh, ay janglande for tene Þat he nolde Þole for noÞyng non of Þose pynes, Þa 3 Þe Fader Þat hym formed were fale of his hele. 'Oure Syre syttes,' he says, 'on sege so hy 3 e In His g[lo]wande glorye, & gloumbes ful lyttel Þa 3 I be nummen in Nunniue & naked dispoyled, On rode rwly torent with rybaudes mony.' Þus he passes to Þat port his passage to seche, Fyndes he a fayr schyp to Þe fare redy, Maches hym with Þe maryneres, makes her paye For to towe hym into Tarce as tyd as Þay my 3 t. Then he tron on Þo tres, & Þay her tramme ruchen, Cachen vp Þe crossayl, cables Þay fasten, Wi 3 t at Þe wyndas we 3 en her ankres, Spende spak to Þe sprete Þe spare bawelyne, Gederen to Þe gyde-ropes, Þe grete cloÞ falles, Þay layden in on laddeborde, & Þe lofe wynnes, Þe blyÞe breÞe at her bak Þe bosum he fyndes; He swenges me Þys swete schip swefte fro Þe hauen. Watz neuer so joyful a Jue as Jonas watz Þenne, Þat Þe daunger of Dry 3 tyn so derfly ascaped; He wende wel Þat Þat Wy 3 Þat al Þe world planted Hade no ma 3 t in Þat mere no man for to greue. Lo, Þe wytles wrechche! For he wolde no 3 t suffer, Now hatz he put hym in plyt of peril wel more. Hit watz a wenyng vnwar Þat welt in his mynde, Þa 3 he were so 3 t fro Samarye, Þat God se 3 no fyrre. 3 ise, He blusched ful brode: Þat burde hym by sure; Þat ofte kyd hym Þe carpe Þat kyng sayde, Dyngne Dauid on des Þat demed Þis speche In a psalme Þat he set Þe sauter withinne: 'O folez in folk, felez oÞerwhyle & vnderstondes vmbestounde, Þa 3 he be stape fole, Hope 3 e Þat He heres not Þat eres alle made? Hit may not be Þat He is blynde Þat bigged vche y 3 e.' Bot he dredes no dynt Þat dotes for elde. For he watz fer in Þe flod foundande to Tarce, Bot I trow ful tyd ouertan Þat he were, So Þat schomely to schort he schote of his ame. For Þe Welder of wyt Þat wot alle Þynges, Þat ay wakes & waytes, at wylle hatz He sly 3 tes. He calde on Þat ilk crafte He carf with His hondes; Þay wakened wel Þe wroÞeloker for wroÞely He cleped: 'Ewrus & Aquiloun Þat on est sittes Blowes boÞe at My bode vpon blo watteres.' Þenne watz no tom Þer bytwene His tale & her dede, So bayn wer Þay boÞe two His bone for to wyrk. Anon out of Þe norÞ-est Þe noys bigynes, When boÞe breÞes con blowe vpon blo watteres. Ro 3 rakkes Þer ros with rudnyng anvnder; Þe see sou 3 ed ful sore, gret selly to here; Þe wyndes on Þe wonne water so wrastel togeder Þat Þe wawes ful wode waltered so hi 3 e & efte busched to Þe abyme, Þat breed fysches Durst nowhere for ro 3 arest at Þe bothem. When Þe breth & Þe brok & Þe bote metten, Hit watz a joyles gyn Þat Jonas watz inne, For hit reled on roun vpon Þe ro 3 e yÞes. Þe bur ber to hit baft, Þat braste alle her gere, Þen hurled on a hepe Þe helme & Þe sterne; Furst tomurte mony rop & Þe mast after; Þe sayl sweyed on Þe see, Þenne suppe bihoued Þe coge of Þe [co]lde water, & Þenne Þe cry ryses. 3 et coruen Þay Þe cordes & kest al Þeroute; Mony ladde Þer forth lep to laue & to kest, Scopen out Þe scaÞel water Þat fayn scape wolde, For be monnes lode neuer so luÞer, Þe lyf is ay swete. Þer watz busy ouer borde bale to kest, Her bagges & her feÞer-beddes & her bry 3 t wedes, Her kysttes & her coferes, her caraldes alle, & al to ly 3 ten Þat lome, 3 if leÞe wolde schape. Bot euer watz ilyche loud Þe lot of Þe wyndes, & euer wroÞer Þe water & wodder Þe stremes. Þen Þo wery forwro 3 t wyst no bote, Bot vchon glewed on his god Þat gayned hym beste: Summe to Vernagu Þer vouched avowes solemne, Summe to Diana deuout & derf Nepturne, To Mahoun & to Mergot, Þe mone & Þe sunne, & vche lede as he loued & layde had his hert. Þenne bispeke Þe spakest, dispayred wel nere: 'I leue here be sum losynger, sum lawles wrech, Þat hatz greued his god & gotz here amonge vus. Lo, al synkes in his synne & for his sake marres. I lovue Þat we lay lotes on ledes vchone, & whoso lympes Þe losse, lay hym Þeroute; & quen Þe gulty is gon, what may gome trawe Bot He Þat rules Þe rak may rwe on Þose oÞer?' Þis watz sette in asent, & sembled Þay were, Her 3 ed out of vche hyrne to hent Þat falles. A lodesmon ly 3 tly lep vnder hachches, For to layte mo ledes & hem to lote bryng. Bot hym fayled no freke Þat he fynde my 3 t, Saf Jonas Þe Jwe, Þat jowked in derne. He watz flowen for ferde of Þe flode lotes Into Þe boÞem of Þe bot, & on a brede lyggede, Onhelde by Þe hurrok, for Þe heuen wrache, Slypped vpon a sloumbe-selepe, & sloberande he routes. Þe freke hym frunt with his fot & bede hym ferk vp: Þer Ragnel in his rakentes hym rere of his dremes! Bi Þe haspede he hentes hym Þenne, & bro 3 t hym vp by Þe brest & vpon borde sette, Arayned hym ful runyschly what raysoun he hade In such sla 3 tes of sor 3 e to slepe so faste. Sone haf Þay her sortes sette & serelych deled, & ay Þe lote vpon laste lymped on Jonas. Þenne ascryed Þay hym sckete & asked ful loude: 'What Þe deuel hatz Þou don, doted wrech? What seches Þou on see, synful schrewe, With Þy lastes so luÞer to lose vus vchone? Hatz Þou, gome, no gouernour ne god on to calle, Þat Þou Þus slydes on slepe when Þou slayn worÞes? Of what londe art Þou lent, what laytes Þou here, Whyder in worlde Þat Þou wylt, & what is Þyn arnde? Lo, Þy dom is Þe dy 3 t, for Þy dedes ille. Do gyf glory to Þy godde, er Þou glyde hens.' 'I am an Ebru,' quoÞ he, 'of Israyl borne; Þat Wy 3 e I worchyp, iwysse, Þat wro 3 t alle Þynges, Alle Þe worlde with Þe welkyn, Þe wynde & Þe sternes, & alle Þat wonez Þer withinne, at a worde one. Alle Þis meschef for me is made at Þys tyme, For I haf greued my God & gulty am founden; ForÞy berez me to Þe borde & baÞeÞes me Þeroute, Er gete 3 e no happe, I hope forsoÞe.' He ossed hym by vnnynges Þat Þay vndernomen Þat he watz flawen fro Þe face of frelych Dry 3 tyn: Þenne such a ferde on hem fel & flayed hem withinne Þat Þay ruyt hym to rowwe, & letten Þe rynk one. HaÞeles hy 3 ed in haste with ores ful longe, Syn her sayl watz hem aslypped, on sydez to rowe, Hef & hale vpon hy 3 t to helpen hymseluen, Bot al watz nedles note: Þat nolde not bityde. In bluber of Þe blo flod bursten her ores. Þenne hade Þay no 3 t in her honde Þat hem help my 3 t; Þenne nas no coumfort to keuer, ne counsel non oÞer, Bot Jonas into his juis jugge bylyue. Fryst Þay prayen to Þe Prynce Þat prophetes seruen Þat He gef hem Þe grace to greuen Hym neuer, Þat Þay in balelez blod Þer blenden her handez, Þa 3 Þat haÞel wer His Þat Þay here quelled. Tyd by top & bi to Þay token hym synne; Into Þat lodlych lo 3 e Þay luche hym sone. He watz no tytter outtulde Þat tempest ne sessed: Þe se sa 3 tled Þerwith as sone as ho mo 3 t. Þenne Þa 3 her takel were torne Þat totered on yÞes, Styffe stremes & stre 3 t hem strayned a whyle, Þat drof hem dry 3 lych adoun Þe depe to serue, Tyl a swetter ful swyÞe hem swe 3 ed to bonk. Þer watz louyng on lofte, when Þay Þe londe wonnen, To oure mercyable God, on Moyses wyse, With sacrafyse vpset, & solempne vowes, & graunted Hym vn to be God & graythly non oÞer. Þa 3 Þay be jolef for joye, Jonas 3 et dredes; Þa 3 he nolde suffer no sore, his seele is on anter; For whatso worÞed of Þat wy 3 e fro he in water dipped, Hit were a wonder to wene, 3 if holy wryt nere. Now is Jonas Þe Jwe jugged to drowne; Of Þat schended schyp men schowued hym sone. A wylde walterande whal, as Wyrde Þen schaped, Þat watz beten fro Þe abyme, bi Þat bot flotte, & watz war of Þat wy 3 e Þat Þe water so 3 te, & swyftely swenged hym to swepe, & his swol 3 opened; Þe folk 3 et haldande his fete, Þe fysch hym tyd hentes; Withouten towche of any tothe he tult in his Þrote. Thenne he swengez & swayues to Þe se boÞem, Bi mony rokkez ful ro 3 e & rydelande strondes, Wyth Þe mon in his mawe malskred in drede, As lyttel wonder hit watz, 3 if he wo dre 3 ed, For nade Þe hy 3 e Heuen-Kyng, Þur 3 His honde my 3 t, Warded Þis wrech man in warlowes guttez, What lede mo 3 t lyue bi lawe of any kynde, Þat any lyf my 3 t be lent so longe hym withinne? Bot he watz sokored by Þat Syre Þat syttes so hi 3 e, Þa 3 were wanlez of wele in wombe of Þat fissche, & also dryuen Þur 3 Þe depe & in derk walterez. Lorde, colde watz his cumfort, & his care huge, For he knew vche a cace & kark Þat hym lymped, How fro Þe bot into Þe blober watz with a best lachched, & Þrwe in at hit Þrote withouten Þret more, As mote in at a munster dor, so mukel wern his chawlez. He glydes in by Þe giles Þur 3 glaym ande glette, Relande in by a rop, a rode Þat hym Þo 3 t, Ay hele ouer hed hourlande aboute, Til he blunt in a blok as brod as a halle; & Þer he festnes Þe fete & fathmez aboute, & stod vp in his stomak Þat stank as Þe deuel. Þer in saym & in sor 3 e Þat sauoured as helle, Þer watz bylded his bour Þat wyl no bale suffer. & Þenne he lurkkes & laytes where watz le best, In vche a nok of his nauel, bot nowhere he fyndez No rest ne recouerer, bot ramel ande myre, In wych gut so euer he gotz, bot euer is God swete; & Þer he lenged at Þe last, & to Þe Lede called: 'Now, Prynce, of Þy prophete pite Þou haue. Þa 3 I be fol & fykel & falce of my hert, Dewoyde now Þy vengaunce, Þur 3 vertu of rauthe; Tha 3 I be gulty of gyle, as gaule of prophetes, Þou art God, & alle gowdez ar grayÞely Þyn owen. Haf now mercy of Þy man & his mysdedes, & preue Þe ly 3 tly a Lorde in londe & in water.' With Þat he hitte to a hyrne & helde hym Þerinne, Þer no defoule of no fylÞe watz fest hym abute; Þer he sete also sounde, saf for merk one, As in Þe bulk of Þe bote Þer he byfore sleped. So in a bouel of Þat best he bidez on lyue, Þre dayes & Þ[r]e ny 3 t, ay Þenkande on Dry 3 tyn, His my 3 t & His merci, His mesure Þenne. Now he knawez Hym in care Þat couÞe not in sele. Ande euer walteres Þis whal bi wyldren depe, Þur 3 mony a regioun ful ro 3 e, Þur 3 ronk of his wylle; For Þat mote in his mawe mad hym, I trowe, Þa 3 hit lyttel were hym wyth, to wamel at his hert; Ande as sayled Þe segge, ay sykerly he herde Þe bygge borne on his bak & bete on his sydes. Þen a prayer ful prest Þe prophete Þer maked; On Þis wyse, as I wene, his wordez were mony: 'Lorde, to Þe haf I cleped in carez ful stronge; Out of Þe hole Þou me herde of hellen wombe; I calde, & Þou knew myn vncler steuen. Þou diptez me of Þe depe se into Þe dymme hert, Þe grete flem of Þy flod folded me vmbe; Alle Þe gotez of Þy guferes & groundelez powlez, & Þy stryuande stremez of stryndez so mony, In on daschande dam dryuez me ouer. & 3 et I say as I seet in Þe se boÞem: "Careful am I, kest out fro Þy cler y 3 en & deseuered fro Þy sy 3 t; 3 et surely I hope Efte to trede on Þy temple & teme to Þyseluen." I am wrapped in water to my wo stoundez; Þe abyme byndes Þe body Þat I byde inne; Þe pure poplande hourle playes on my heued; To laste mere of vche a mount, Man, am I fallen; Þe barrez of vche a bonk ful bigly me haldes, Þat I may lachche no lont, & Þou my lyf weldes. Þou schal releue me, Renk, whil Þy ry 3 t slepez, Þur 3 my 3 t of Þy mercy Þat mukel is to tryste. For when Þ'acces of anguych watz hid in my sawle, Þenne I remembred me ry 3 t of my rych Lorde, Prayande Him for pete His prophete to here, Þat into His holy hous myn orisoun mo 3 t entre. I haf meled with Þy maystres mony longe day, Bot now I wot wyterly Þat Þose vnwyse ledes Þat affyen hym in vanyte & in vayne Þynges For Þink Þat mountes to no 3 t her mercy forsaken; Bot I dewoutly awowe, Þat verray betz halden, Soberly to do Þe sacrafyse when I schal saue worÞe, & offer Þe for my hele a ful hol gyfte, & halde goud Þat Þou me hetes: haf here my trauthe.' Thenne oure Fader to Þe fysch ferslych biddez Þat he hym sput spakly vpon spare drye. Þer whal wendez at His wylle & a warÞe fyndez, & Þer he brakez vp Þe buyrne as bede hym oure Lorde. Þenne he swepe to Þe sonde in sluchched cloÞes: Hit may wel be Þat mester were his mantyle to wasche. Þe bonk Þat he blosched to & bode hym bisyde Wern of Þe regiounes ry 3 t Þat he renayed hade. Þenne a wynde of Goddez worde efte Þe wy 3 e bruxlez: 'Nylt Þou neuer to Nuniue bi no kynnez wayez?' ' 3 isse, Lorde,' quoÞ Þe lede, 'lene me Þy grace For to go at Þi gre: me gaynez [n]on oÞer.' 'Ris, aproche Þen to prech, lo, Þe place here. Lo, My lore is in Þe loke, lauce hit Þerinne.' Þenne Þe renk radly ros as he my 3 t, & to Niniue Þat na 3 t he ne 3 ed ful euen; Hit watz a cete ful syde & selly of brede; On to Þrenge ÞerÞur 3 e watz Þre dayes dede. Þat on journay ful joynt Jonas hym 3 ede, Er euer he warpped any worde to wy 3 e Þat he mette, & Þenne he cryed so cler Þat kenne my 3 t alle Þe trwe tenor of his teme; he tolde on Þis wyse: ' 3 et schal forty dayez fully fare to an ende, & Þenne schal Niniue be nomen & to no 3 t worÞe; Truly Þis ilk toun schal tylte to grounde; Vp-so-doun schal 3 e dumpe depe to Þe abyme, To be swol 3 ed swyftly wyth Þe swart erÞe, & alle Þat lyuyes hereinne lose Þe swete.' Þis speche sprang in Þat space & spradde alle aboute, To borges & to bacheleres Þat in Þat bur 3 lenged; Such a hidor hem hent & a hatel drede, Þat al chaunged her chere & chylled at Þe hert. Þe segge sesed not 3 et, bot sayde euer ilyche: 'Þe verray vengaunce of God schal voyde Þis place!' Þenne Þe peple pitosly pleyned ful stylle, & for Þe drede of Dry 3 tyn doured in hert; Heter hayrez Þay hent Þat asperly bited, & Þose Þay bounden to her bak & to her bare sydez, Dropped dust on her hede, & dymly biso 3 ten Þat Þat penaunce plesed Him Þat playnez on her wronge. & ay he cryes in Þat kyth tyl Þe kyng herde, & he radly vpros & ran fro his chayer, His ryche robe he torof of his rigge naked, & of a hep of askes he hitte in Þe myddez. He askez heterly a hayre & hasped hym vmbe, Sewed a sekke Þerabof, & syked ful colde; Þer he dased in Þat duste, with droppande teres, Wepande ful wonderly alle his wrange dedes. Þenne sayde he to his serjauntes: 'Samnes yow bilyue; Do dryue out a decre, demed of myseluen, Þat alle Þe bodyes Þat ben withinne Þis bor 3 quyk, BoÞe burnes & bestes, burdez & childer, Vch prynce, vche prest, & prelates alle, Alle faste frely for her falce werkes; Sesez childer of her sok, soghe hem so neuer, Ne best bite on no brom, ne no bent nauÞer, Passe to no pasture, ne pike non erbes, Ne non oxe to no hay, ne no horse to water. Al schal crye, forclemmed, with alle oure clere strenÞe; Þe rurd schal ryse to Hym Þat rawÞe schal haue; What wote oÞer wyte may 3 if Þe Wy 3 e lykes, Þat is hende in Þe hy 3 t of His gentryse? I wot His my 3 t is so much, Þa 3 He be myssepayed, Þat in His mylde amesyng He mercy may fynde. & if we leuen Þe layk of oure layth synnes, & stylle steppen in Þe sty 3 e He sty 3 tlez Hymseluen, He wyl wende of His wodschip & His wrath leue, & forgif vus Þis gult, 3 if we Hym God leuen.' Þenne al leued on His lawe & laften her synnes, Parformed alle Þe penaunce Þat Þe prynce radde; & God Þur 3 His godnesse forgef as He sayde; Þa 3 He oÞer bihy 3 t, withhelde His vengaunce. Muche sor 3 e Þenne satteled vpon segge Jonas; He wex as wroth as Þe wynde towarde oure Lorde. So hatz anger onhit his hert, [h]e callez A prayer to Þe hy 3 e Prynce, for pyne, on Þys wyse: 'I biseche Þe, Syre, now Þou self jugge; Watz not Þis ilk my worde Þat worÞen is nouÞe, Þat I kest in my cuntre, when Þou Þy carp sendez Þat I schulde tee to Þys toun Þi talent to preche? Wel knew I Þi cortaysye, Þy quoynt soffraunce, Þy bounte of debonerte & Þy bene grace, Þy longe abydyng wyth lur, Þy late vengaunce; & ay Þy mercy is mete, be mysse neuer so huge. I wyst wel, when I hade worded quatsoeuer I cowÞe To manace alle Þise mody men Þat in Þis mote dowellez, Wyth a prayer & a pyne Þay my 3 t her pese gete, & Þerfore I wolde haf flowen fer into Tarce. Now, Lorde, lach out my lyf, hit lastes to longe. Bed me bilyue my bale-stour & bryng me on ende, For me were swetter to swelt as swyÞe, as me Þynk, Þen lede lenger Þi lore Þat Þus me les makez.' Þe soun of oure Souerayn Þen swey in his ere, Þat vpbraydes Þis burne vpon a breme wyse: 'Herk, renk, is Þis ry 3 t so ronkly to wrath For any dede Þat I haf don oÞer demed Þe 3 et?' Jonas al joyles & janglande vpryses, & haldez out on est half of Þe hy 3 e place, & farandely on a felde he fettelez hym to bide, For to wayte on Þat won what schulde worÞe after. Þer he busked hym a bour, Þe best Þat he my 3 t, Of hay & of euer-ferne & erbez a fewe, For hit watz playn in Þat place for plyande greuez, For to schylde fro Þe schene oÞer any schade keste. He bowed vnder his lyttel boÞe, his bak to Þe sunne, & Þer he swowed & slept sadly al ny 3 t, Þe whyle God of His grace ded growe of Þat soyle Þe fayrest bynde hym abof Þat euer burne wyste. When Þe dawande day Dry 3 tyn con sende, Þenne wakened Þe wy 3 vnder wodbynde, Loked alofte on Þe lef Þat lylled grene; Such a lefsel of lof neuer lede hade, For hit watz brod at Þe boÞem, bo 3 ted on lofte, Happed vpon ayÞer half, a hous as hit were, A nos on Þe norÞ syde & nowhere non ellez, Bot al schet in a scha 3 e Þat schaded ful cole. Þe gome gly 3 t on Þe grene graciouse leues, Þat euer wayued a wynde so wyÞe & so cole; Þe schyre sunne hit vmbeschon, Þa 3 no schafte my 3 t Þe mountaunce of a lyttel mote vpon Þat man schyne. Þenne watz Þe gome so glad of his gay logge, Lys loltrande Þerinne lokande to toune; So blyÞe of his wodbynde he balteres Þervnde[r], Þat of no diete Þat day Þe deuel haf he ro 3 t. & euer he la 3 ed as he loked Þe loge alle aboute, & wysched hit were in his kyth Þer he wony schulde, On he 3 e vpon Effraym oÞer Ermonnes hillez: 'Iwysse, a worÞloker won to welde I neuer keped.' & quen hit ne 3 ed to na 3 t nappe hym bihoued; He slydez on a sloumbe-slep sloghe vnder leues, Whil God wayned a worme Þat wrot vpe Þe rote, & wyddered watz Þe wodbynde bi Þat Þe wy 3 e wakned; & syÞen He warnez Þe west to waken ful softe, & sayez vnte Zeferus Þat he syfle warme, Þat Þer quikken no cloude bifore Þe cler sunne, & ho schal busch vp ful brode & brenne as a candel. Þen wakened Þe wy 3 e of his wyl dremes, & blusched to his wodbynde Þat broÞely watz marred, Al welwed & wasted Þo worÞelych leues; Þe schyre sunne hade hem schent er euer Þe schalk wyst. & Þen hef vp Þe hete & heterly brenned; Þe warm wynde of Þe weste, wertes he swyÞez. Þe man marred on Þe molde Þat mo 3 t hym not hyde His wodbynde watz away, he weped for sor 3 e; With hatel anger & hot, heterly he callez: 'A, Þou Maker of man, what maystery Þe Þynkez Þus Þy freke to forfare forbi alle oÞer? With alle meschef Þat Þou may, neuer Þou me sparez; I keuered me a cumfort Þat now is ca 3 t fro me, My wodbynde so wlonk Þat wered my heued. Bot now I se Þou art sette my solace to reue; Why ne dy 3 ttez Þou me to di 3 e? I dure to longe.' 3 et oure Lorde to Þe lede laused a speche: 'Is Þis ry 3 twys, Þou renk, alle Þy ronk noyse, So wroth for a wodbynde to wax so sone? Why art Þou so waymot, wy 3 e, for so lyttel?' 'Hit is not lyttel,' quoÞ Þe lede, 'bot lykker to ry 3 t; I wolde I were of Þis worlde wrapped in moldez.' 'Þenne byÞenk Þe, mon, if Þe forÞynk sore, If I wolde help My hondewerk, haf Þou no wonder; Þou art waxen so wroth for Þy wodbynde, & trauayledez neuer to tent hit Þe tyme of an howre, Bot at a wap hit here wax & away at anoÞer, & 3 et lykez Þe so luÞer, Þi lyf woldez Þou tyne. Þenne wyte not Me for Þe werk, Þat I hit wolde help, & rwe on Þo redles Þat remen for synne; Fyrst I made hem Myself of materes Myn one, & syÞen I loked hem ful longe & hem on lode hade. & if I My trauayl schulde tyne of termes so longe, & type doun 3 onder toun when hit turned were, Þe sor of such a swete place burde synk to My hert, So mony malicious mon as mournez Þerinne. & of Þat soumme 3 et arn summe, such sottez formadde, As lyttel barnez on barme Þat neuer bale wro 3 t, & wymmen vnwytte Þat wale ne couÞe Þat on hande fro Þat oÞer, fo[r] alle Þis hy 3 e worlde. Bitwene Þe stele & Þe stayre disserne no 3 t cunen, What rule renes in roun bitwene Þe ry 3 t hande & his lyfte, Þa 3 his lyf schulde lost be Þerfor; & als Þer ben doumbe bestez in Þe bur 3 mony, Þat may not synne in no syt hemseluen to greue. Why schulde I wrath wyth hem, syÞen wy 3 ez wyl torne, & cum & cnawe Me for Kyng & My carpe leue? Wer I as hastif a[s] Þou heere, were harme lumpen; CouÞe I not Þole bot as Þou, Þer Þryued ful fewe. I may not be so mal[i]cious & mylde be halden, For malyse is no 3 [t] to mayntyne boute mercy withinne.' Be no 3 t so gryndel, godman, bot go forth Þy wayes, Be preue & be pacient in payne & in joye; For he Þat is to rakel to renden his cloÞez Mot efte sitte with more vnsounde to sewe hem togeder. ForÞy when pouerte me enprecez & paynez inno 3 e Ful softly with suffraunce sa 3 ttel me bihouez; ForÞy penaunce & payne topreue hit in sy 3 t Þat pacience is a nobel poynt, Þa 3 hit displese ofte. Amen.

I have no idea what happens when I turn my back. I sleep through everything. It is quite stupid how I never open my eyes. The carpet is luscious. The blossom at the window is spectacular. I try to keep them apart. There are more grown-ups than I know what to do with. I have a different Darling for each one. I inflect it. I miss everything — the haunted wardrobe, the bald landlady, the slurring woman crashing up and down the stairs, Look after her, Look after her, Pierrot with his little spoon.

Of course we knew the “incidents,” the aura of Divinity, duck-and-cover in the parking garage, Gloria Swanson chinchilla redux, yes, he’d been a bombshell—the eyes still sang with the merriment of a punchbowl, fine wrists, that dahlia neck, skin bleached with peroxide, of course he swam in the nude, stashed gin in the toilet tank, stored stockings in the freezer so they wouldn’t run, had a thing for Adenauer, played roulette with the .45 won in a Cuban dancehall, raging along hallways, fathering four children, feeling the eyes of the back stairs, beck of the undercurrent, his own hand in his lap like an orphan, of course he gardened in Dior, of course he was flagrant, but what escaped us was the way he peeked into the neighbor’s kitchen drawers for something he swore they’d stolen, beyond the foreground obligation, aspiration insistent as a stuck car horn in the slow blue hours of morning, discarded affection, what escaped us was the dampness at the collarbone, the delicacy of the pose (cigarette and upturned cheek), the lingering by the kitchen knives, the bias cut off the dressing gown, break and fall, tumbrel of illusion— and what we wanted to escape: that he was ruthless, beyond hope.