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On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry, the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones leaping off  the high rocks — bodies crowding the water. The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet, marble for  graveyards, for buildings that we never saw, buildings in cities far away. On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous, but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after. The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off but always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they’d keep watch, sometimes they’d pretend to go off  with each other like the rest, but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them. But they’d show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change, fate would be a different fate. At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together. After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed, then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we’d meet and the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of summer, we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing. And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone. The game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes, worrying about the ones who weren’t there. And then finally walk home through the fields, because there was always work the next day. And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning, eating a peach.  Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth. And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields. One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves. The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built. And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night. Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen. And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat, wanting the heat to break. Then the heat broke, the night was clear. And you thought of  the boy or girl you’d be meeting later. And you thought of  walking into the woods and lying down, practicing all those things you were learning in the water. And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with, there was no substitute for that person. The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting. And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages: You will leave the village where you were born and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful, but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though you can’t say what it was, and eventually you will return to seek it.

I. I am a man.  I’ve lived alone.  I’ve been  in  love.  I’ve  played  with fire, cursed the telephone, and basked in verse, in verve, and also Humid,     terrestrial,     mixed,     nongenderspecific, have   occasionally day’s  tumult  ushers  in   an evening with  a  lone moved  a  woman’s shut   icecream   stand,   false  promises  of  cone heart,  although  I also, and  scoop  near  Central  Park.   Juneific famously,  had  such  an awk- are   the   silhouettes  of   people  dreaming  by, ward   start.  Amazed  at lips,   lit   cigarette   tips,   thoughts  and  tulips  streaming  by how  much along   dimly   hospitable   park   lamps  toward  eleven symmetry  a  life with  an  occasional   rev   of   internal   combustion can  still  support,  I wafted   across   from   nearabouts. stare  in  rapt  near-idiocy,  like  a “What’s   this   you  are  talking  about,  Sarah?” foreign   passport, and you   hear  a  voice,  and   the  reply,  “I’m  sorry. April’s   Persian  lilacs but  what  was  I  supposed  to  do?”  Two   bats all  bloom  straight  into dash   through   a  silver  stretch  of  atmosphere. my  face,  and  various What   she   was  supposed  to  do   we  never  hear, other   blossom, too, depending on each case, while  you  are  softly  tangible, while  you are sweetly mine. We’re existentially  wise,  we’re  mortally divine. II. All whispers  know  where  whispers  go  and  lusters  where  with lusters flow, and when your palm is in my palm, just as my poem There  is   a  sparkling   tone  to  how  you   speak, is  in  your  poem,  look a   quickness   to   your   whisper,   an   implied at   this   stellar,  cellular, correctness   in   your   ironies.   We   stride organic   life   of   mine,   the along   emphatic   benches   in   the   weak general  and  particular,  the light   bristling   eloquent   dark.  Pine,   elm  and  oak gross  (as  well   as fall  silent  now  to  hear  you  tell  a  joke— fine)  intentions  I  epitomize. something  about  a  man  and  a   mandrake; Look,  seeing  through  its I think  it  cute  and  laugh  like  Captain  Drake. thin disguise the bleary We  then  explore  the  vagaries  of  light sky  whose   weepy  eyes  have found  underfoot  by  lamps,  and  kiss.  “Beatrix, rained   us  a  surprise. will    you   still   need   me  when   I’m   thirty-six?" A    lightning    bolt’s You   favorably   mumble  that  you  might, protruding  hand  snatched and  throw  a  willing  arm  around  my  nape. past us,  far and brief and I reassure you that there’s no escape. as  I  hold  you  in  my  arms,  you fill me with belief. Don’t wonder if and how, much  stranger  than right now, the  hyacinth of  sorrow may blossom  forth tomorrow. III. The  stars  in  liquid  decadence  reclaim  their  lost  positions, all knotty dispositions dissolved in limpid dance. They offer us their Another   couple   floats  up  through  thickened  ink stardom.   Oh,   we into  the  field  of  vision,  to  redissolve could  sympathize  with  them, leaving  a  thin  trail  of   perfume  and  love but   instead,  we   set  eyes and   visual   recollection  in   the  pink. with   them  upon  that  higher Cicadas   cataract  from  tree  to  tree. tsardom,  that  real  of  love  and A mock  nightingale  trills,  then  two,  then  three. reason.  Our  lengthy We  cut   short  across  grass  and  leaves  (then  four), cigarettes  crackle encountering   no  one  on  our  slight  detour with   dry  regrets  during where,   negligibly   burdened   with  a   sixpack, the  rainy   season,  but a  master  and  his  bulldog  rustle  on, we  ignore  their  humors, their a   small   red   light   fixed   to   her   furry   back. melancholy  murmurs, We  are  too  busy  with  our  love  to  see  them. decline   ascetic  rigors, Tomorrow   we’ll   be   going   back   to  Boston. welcome  straight  facts, Three   cheers   for   Central   Park  at   height   of   season. clear    figures, where   laws  concerning  numbers  come  plumed  with  midnight sounds, and spirits  stir  from  slumbers  like  angels out of clouds.

Broadway past Lincoln Center and the wind is up so seems to speak saw you through the glass standing in line I swear a quiver played on your lips you were leafing through his book… —years it’s been years since Corona Heights, backing into him: dribble, hook, swish… …that beige comfy couch, sipping a stem of wine, his cat in my lap * * * The Townhouse Saturday night—shoulder to shoulder pushing toward the piano he stops to squeeze by; his eyes  mine clench  unclench… …What was it we found in common over drink   smoke   talk? A college campus —his son, his daughter * * * Earlier that night I rose to the city’s surface steam through the grate, crossed crossed again down 7th past Carnegie Hall, the greek joint as imagined, chic —unlike the shirt D wore (the fur of his arms) at Castro and Market waiting for the light: words were struck like steel and flint that distant August day…Then his visit to Spain, mine to New Canaan—walking through the Morgan with him. And what our mouths unfurled across a table of olives years later—last night… Dropping me off at 58th he reaches for the door I’m fumbling to open, leans close and plants what I’ve missed all these years

At dusk, a great flare of winter lightning photographed the bay: Waves were broken scrolls.          Beyond Donegal, white mountains hung in a narrow bas-relief frozen on sky. Later, there was sleet: trees down on the Drumholm road; near Timoney’s farm, a frantic goose pinned under branches. All night long, we spoke of loneliness, long winter, while winter sang in the chimneys. Then the sky cleared and a marvel began: The hills turned blue; in the valley a blue cottage sent up the day’s first plume of smoke. It gathered like a dream drenched in frost. That should have been all.                           We had worn out night. But single-file,  deliberate,  five heifers,  a black bull,  three calves stepped  through the broken fence. They arranged themselves between the house and hedge: a kind of diagram: a shifting pattern grazing frozen weeds. Their image is with me still.               The backs of the cattle are patchy with frost blue as morning.

All night I dreamed of roses, Wild tangle by the sea, And shadowy garden closes. Dream-led I met with thee. Around thee swayed the roses, Beyond thee sang the sea; The shadowy garden closes Were Paradise to me. O Love, ’mid the dream-roses Abide to heal, to save! The world that day discloses Narrows to one white grave.

Only this boy moves between the runes of trees on his tricycle when an eagle swoops, releases two arrows from its silver wings, and melts away faster than lightning. Then a loud whistle and a bang like dry thunder. In a blink the boy sees his house roof sink. Feels his ears ripped off. The blast puffs up a fawn smoke bigger than a mountain cloud. The slow begonias rattle their scarlet like confetti. Metal slashes the trees and ricochets. Wires and pipes snap at the roots, quiver. The whirling smoke packed with bricks and cement, chicken feathers and nigella seeds. When the cloud begins to settle on the ground, the boy makes out buckled iron rods. White soot descends and he finds himself dressed like an apprentice baker.

The earth had wanted us all to itself. The mountains wanted us back for themselves. The numbered valleys of serpentine wanted us; that’s why it happened as it did, the split as if one slow gear turned beneath us. . . Then the Tuesday shoppers paused in the street and the tube that held the trout-colored train and the cords of action from triangular buildings and the terraced gardens that held camelias shook and shook, each flower a single thought. Mothers and children took cover under tables. I called out to her who was my life. From under the table—I hid under the table that held the begonia with the fiery stem, the stem that had been trying to root, that paused in its effort—I called to the child who was my life. And understood, in the endless instant before she answered, how Pharaoh’s army, seeing the ground break open, seeing the first fringed horses fall into the gap, made their vows, that each heart changes, faced with a single awe and in that moment a promise is written out. However we remember California later the earth we loved will know the truth: that it wanted us back for itself with our mighty forms and our specific longings, wanted them to be air and fire but they wouldn’t; the kestrel circled over a pine, which lasted, the towhee who loved freedom, gathering seed during the shaking lasted, the painting released by the wall, the mark and hook we placed on the wall, and the nail, and the memory of driving the nail in, these also lasted—

To each orphaned child—so long as you remain close enough to walk to your living kin you will dance, feast, feel community in food. This cannot stand. Eighty acres allotted. To each head of household—so long as you remember your tribal words for village you will recollect that the grasses still grow and the rivers still flow. So long as you teach your children these words they will remember as well. This we cannot allow. One hundred and sixty acres allotted. To each elder unable to till or hunt—so long as your old and injurious habits sing out over the drum or flicker near the fire you cripple our reward. We seek to hasten your end. Eighty acres allotted. To each widowed wife—so long as you can make your mark, your land may be leased. A blessing on your mark when you sign it and walk closer to your favored white sister. Eighty acres allotted. To each full blood—so long as you have an open hand, we shall fill it with a broken ploughshare. One hundred and sixty acres allotted. To each half blood, each quarter strain—so long as you yearn for the broken ploughshare, you will be provided a spade honed to razor in its place. When every acre of your allotment has been leased or sold, you will turn it on yourself. From that date begins our real and permanent progress.

Victor gets a real sense of power from making his own raisins. He buys pounds and pounds of grapes and leaves them to dry on the kitchen table. Theresa doesn’t want to hear about her ex-husband’s cancer. Not on Father’s Day. She takes a train all night to have breakfast with her cousin. All Sunday she rides the train back. Once Martin’s wife had left, he decided to take advantage of her space. He built a sauna where her closet was, and now sits there every morning to read the paper and Buddha. One night Helga wore her prettiest dress, thought she knew he wouldn’t be there. She drank white wine, got drunk (she was on a diet), and fell down. Later he saw the holes in her pantyhose. María was usually bumping into furniture. Each time she got closer to what she wanted. “What do you want from me?” “Nothing,” he replied, so she took off and felt like migrating birds. But many.

Water rocks the hull of the ship and the dark night comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the forests on the island the people sleep or fight to sleep or smoke the coarse-leaved tobacco with cans of saltwater at hand nearby for threat of fire the people dream of rich goods and silk and land and sea slender bars of chocolate hidden in the trunk with jewelry stuffed below the bed the people dream of fire and awake to the damp air salt in the throat and cough to awake to the dark night that comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the hands of the people from the forest on the Island as the ship moves East leaving the water of the Islands bays rocks and close current into open sea along the Black Current the Black Sivo the current that runs along the Islands of the North and takes the ship into the waters of open sea On the boats come the goods that cross the waters like veins and blood rushing the goods cross the waters raw silk in bundles the fineness of two strands thin untwisted silk white scarlet blue mustard wound in small skeins quantities of velvets gold embroidered with gold woven and brocades silver thread upon silk in patterns detailed and rich damasks satin taffetas linen from the grass called lencesuelo musk benzoin ivory metal basins copper cast iron pots bed ornaments hangings coverlets tapestries of different shades horse-trappings finished with glass beads seed-pearls rubies sapphires crystals nails sheet-iron tin lead salt petre gunpowder wheat flour preserves of orange peach pear nectarine plums cherries nutmeg pepper ginger salt pork chestnuts walnuts chicueyes thread needles thimbles cushions pins boxes writing cases engraved with scenes of bamboo and waves moons and mist beds chairs gilded benches buffalos geese swans horses males asses caged birds that sing birds that talk birds the color of ash the color of sunrise rum is the cane’s sugar water invented from smart mouths of slaves discarded impurities boiled to a bitter blackness rough as gravel so unwanted they lined the lips of rain ditches calcium rich tips of animal hooves mixing with rain dirt and mud old leaves fiber and mangrove the unwanted collected yet in the rich dirt purity of need a sweetness beyond sweetness the seven o clock sweat of an unwashed neck hair fibers and cane pulp the foaming rush of juice and song beaten into barefoot psalms the simple chemistry of this distillation of a kiss thirst and a word like rum and a word like rum and a word like… achuete atole avocado balsa banqueta cachuete calabaza camachile camote calachuche chico chocolate coyote nanay tatay tiangui tocayo zacate zapote On the boats come the blood that cross the waters like veins and goods the blood comes crossing the waters Blanco y India = Mestizo Mestizo y Mestiza = Mulato Blanca y Mulata = Terceron, Morisco Indio y Torna-atras = Lobo Indio y Negra = Zambo Indio y No te entiendo = Ahi te estas Indio y Coyota = Chamiso Indio y Loba = Grifo Negro y Mulato = Galfaro Negro y Zamba = Zambo prieto Mulato y Barzina = Coyote Mulato (o Chino) y Loba = Jibaro Mulato y Tente en el aire = No te entiendo On the boats come the blood the blood the blood a shadow of water dampens the curling script of graffiti a swirling necklage of smooth-abdomened ants carry blond eggs on their backs the plumb jaws of larvae undulating green tufts of grass shoulder concrete exhaling in small shatterings the day’s weightlessness the sky the revolting face of an enraged and tender lover promises a flashing echo and wind when the rain comes again you will remember a certain origin a canopy of molecules and mist you will forget to want yourself a different shade a different shape instead another bed of injury and faith a quiet quiet some thing no stronger than a leaf or a wave taking shape Water rocks the hull of the ship and the dark night comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the forests on the island the people sleep or fight to sleep or smoke the coarse-leaved tobacco with cans of saltwater at hand nearby for threat of fire the people dream of rich goods and silk and land and sea slender bars of chocolate hidden in the trunk with jewelry stuffed below the bed the people dream of fire and awake to the damp air salt in the throat and cough to awake to the dark night that comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the hands of the people from the forest on the Island as the ship moves East leaving the water of the Islands bays rocks and close current into open sea along the Black Current the Black Sivo the current that runs along the Islands of the North and takes the ship into the waters of open sea