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“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say, “Except, now and then, a stray picket Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost—only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle.” *    *    *    *    *    * All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard—for the army is sleeping. There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother—may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so suddenly flashing? It looked life a rifle—“Ha! Mary, good-by!” And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket’s off duty forever!

I was humbled when my boss mocked me for calling from vacation I’m broke again until Friday from my bed I see the lights, I see the party lights it’s torture a post-Fordist allegory? I appropriated a corporate apology and saved it in case something happened but my end date came and my vacation days paid out I bought pills from the intern I’d hired on my way out by the seaport I texted you we made plans to drink I like your poochie print workout clothes the credit card you keep for emergencies I bought a book from Strand Annex though the poetics weren’t to my taste later the author died I was nervous in those days always in need my dark heart, my secret poetry, my drug-filler cut into my life and love that it and I may last

Last night whistling I passed by their alley, saw them in a sidelong blink of light from traffic, a speeding car, then I went home. Dreamed of gold skies, black money.  I felt so stupid, to talk about them feels stupid.  I’m the sullen red Sun. Bernadette leans from tenement windows, sailors keep searching world after world for Bernadette, and her arms are black, her outstretched proffered palms all milky. From them coins drop into Pickpocket’s pockets freely. Pickpocket’s face is pocked, his arms are pocked.  I threw his face in a lake to make it ripple, he smokes a cigar to an orange hot hole in his face, a glow.  At night the Sun’s a kid brought behind the woodshed and abased.

"After a white reception in the crystal room of the Hotel Kenmore, Mrs. George Eustic (Patricia Hays) and her husband left on a wedding trip to the Pocono Mountains, Pa. They will live in good old Noodleville." (Home.) Where the friendly purple heart is. I like to do things. I like to eat, and things like that. I like the things that go on around me. People are nice. And, really, I like this place I live in. However, some people don't. Sally doesn't. Sick at heart, the trembling girl shuddered at the words that delivered her to this terrible horrible fate of the East. "Nasty!" How could she escape from this oriental monster into whose hands she had fallen—this strange man whose face none had seen. Smile! It is only a little picture, In a little silver frame, And across the back is written My darling mother's name. (Valentine) Pink and purple and orange ones with Venetian rose buds Imported from Venetian In eleven thrilling volumes I heard a shot—I saw him run—then I saw her fall—the woman I love. My leg was broken—and my gun was gone! I had only one thought—(tee! hee!)—his strange, astounding plots must be avenged—he must die for a coward at my hands! He had the courage of a lion and the cunning of a rat. He came running towards me when—suddenly, I— Ran. Forgetting the ripped lace, $35, green violence, & free samples. "I always run when I hear 3 rings!" . . . and remember those swell picnics in Birch Grove?

Sea-preserved, heaped with sea-spoils, Ribs, keels, coral sores, Detached faces, ephemeral oils, Discharged on the world’s outer shores, A dumb child-king Arrives at his right place; rests, Undisturbed, among slack serpents; beasts With claws flesh-buttered. In the gathering Of bestial and common hardship Artistic men appear to worship And fall down; to recognize Familiar tokens; believe their own eyes. Above the marvel, each rigid head, Angels, their unnatural wings displayed, Freeze into an attitude Recalling the dead.

I think I like this room. The curtains and the furniture aren’t the same Of course, but the light comes in the window as it used to Late in the morning, after the others had gone to work. You can even shave in it. On the dresser with the mirror Are a couple of the pictures we took one afternoon Last May, walking down the alley in the late sunlight. I remember now how we held hands for fifteen minutes Afterwards. The words meander through the mirror But I don’t want them now, I don’t want these abbreviations. What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography Of the nerves, but what I like in photography Is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood. The late afternoon sunlight is slanting through the window Again, sketching the room in vague gestures of discontent That roll off the mind, and then only seem to disappear. What am I going to do now? And how am I going to sleep tonight? A peculiar name flickers in the mirror, and then disappears.

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names: But only with the roses plays; And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This Darling of the Gods was born! Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy, who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O, then let me in time compound, And parley with those conquering eyes; Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise. Let me be laid, Where I may see thy glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; And roses of their thorns disarm: But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But, O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora angry at thy crime, To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES SHALL BE A STRANGE NIGHT IN THE SOUTH, IT SHALL BE THE TIME WHEN NEGROES LEAVE THE SOUTH FOREVER, GREEN TRAINS SHALL ARRIVE FROM RED PLANET MARS CRACKLING BLUENESS SHALL SEND TOOTH-COVERED CARS FOR THEM TO LEAVE IN, TO GO INTO THE NORTH FOREVER, AND I SEE MY LITTLE GIRL MOTHER AGAIN WITH HER CROSS THAT IS NOT BURNING, HER SKIRTS OF BLACK, OF ALL COLORS, HER AURA OF FAMILIARITY. THE SOUTH SHALL WEEP BITTER TEARS TO NO AVAIL, THE NEGROES HAVE GONE INTO CRACKLING BLUENESS. CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL ARRIVE WITH THE BOSTON COMMONS, TO TAKE ELISSI LANDI NORTH, CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL BE LAYING ON BOSTON COMMONS, ELISSI LANDI SHALL FEEL ALIVE AGAIN. I SHALL CALL HER NAME AS SHE STEPS ON TO THE BOSTON COMMONS, AND FLIES NORTH FOREVER, LINCOLN SHALL BE THERE, TO SEE THEM LEAVE THE SOUTH FOREVER, ELISSI LANDI, SHE WILL BE GREEN. THE WHITE SOUTH SHALL GATHER AT PRESERVATION HALL.

John 3.2 Through that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glowworms shine, And face the moon, Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see, When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun! O who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower, Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity? No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch and peep And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear night! this world’s defeat; The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ’s progress, and His prayer time; The hours to which high heaven doth chime; God’s silent, searching flight; When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night; His still, soft call; His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. Were all my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice Is seldom rent, Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire, And by this world’s ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night. There is in God, some say, A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim!

After the jostling on canal streets and the orchids blowing in the window I work in cut glass and majolica and hear the plectrum of the angels. My thoughts keep dwelling on the littoral where china clocks tick in the cold shells and the weeds slide in the equinox. The night is cold for love, a chamber for the chorus and the antistrophe of the sealight.