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A snail sank — grand in puss and rime, on three coils (equals one tea-wheel) white. The wheel brings the bill, the bill — bald. Everyone goes in for the table, the tablecloth is of water. One says huh — one morning high on a grape I dropped off — a dunce — and exacted my height, and rightly so: it is a height I won’t have made alone. It is a height erring on all sides. The bride slip’n slides on her back to us — then on her head (a ball-point pen), quicksand in her hair. A man beside her, his mouth is like a dark arch for her. My mouth is death to you! In this new rhythm how can I say, how can I thank you, for I feel a blessing running through my tale now, it shines — intestines — that I will can.

For Scott Harris Last summer’s fishing failures dangled from trees: a Rapala and Jitterbug a stand of privet paid for, half-ounce jigs with rubber skirts and jelly worms with wide-gap hooks on ten-pound test we tithed with overzealous casts at bass. Then off we’d go (our stringers bare) to find a yard to cut, a truck to wash, so we could fill the tackle box we shared again. Today is 12/12/12, the Mayan end, and I, a country boy in Brooklyn for the week, will hail a cab for the first time and think of cows unnerved by fish we missed and shouts of “shit” that followed, and dawns to dusks and always back with you, my childhood friend. Our girls will never know that pond’s deep hole a baseball diamond now fills — the city leaders’ bright idea — or how their fathers sitting in the bleachers on Saturdays a couple decades later can almost feel the stinging nettle against their thighs, the lunker largemouth sweeping the bed with her tail while plastic lizards jerk and drag across the third base line, or how when we untrain our ears to baseballs cracking bats and bitchy parents, called strikes and alike, we hear the peepers sounding off in oaks on down the way, our mothers’ and fathers’ voices calling us home not too far behind or ahead.

What flickers with some delicacy of feeling, some hesitancy— and then persists. • What circles. What darts. • Hunger is like the inside biting you. “Like” is like insomnia. • These green cherry tomatoes; their false pregnancies, staked. Lustrous. • “That’s all I meant.” All I meant by “witches.”

Not less; only—different. Not everything should be visible. Wingdom: doves. Not everything can be. There are many parts to the body.The light, like I said. Gratia exempli, per person more than one heart. As, of hearts, more than one kind. As coin. As thrust. To begin counting is to understand what it can mean, to lose track. Is there nothing not useful? Anything left, anymore, private?Ambition, like they said: little torch; having meant to. Doom is always in style somewhere and, where it isn't, will come back. Bird in the bush, take me. Splendor: nothing priceless. To believe anything, to want anything—these, too, have cost you.Flame, and the beveled sword, set inside it. This one, this—what did you think body was? What did you mean when you said not everything should be said?The light as a tipped cone, searching. The body that breaks finally, routinely faltering before that.If a sword, then without patience; if as water–pearled, swift. What else could you have thought, when you thought love–having known the torch, having more than meant to.Just watch me. Not grand; only—distant.Weather, and the bleachable skull, set inside it. Locust-wind, small through-the-yellow-sycamore fingering wind, Carry me, let the prayer—valiant, up— go. Some bright and last thing should.

Lusty Youth should us ensue, His merry heart shall sure all rue. For whatsoever they do him tell, It is not for him, we know it well. For they would have him his Liberty refrain And all merry company for to disdain, But I will not so whatsoever they say, But follow his mind in all that we may. How should Youth himself best use But all disdainers for to refuse? Youth has, as chief assurance, Honest Mirth with Virtue's pastance. For in them consisteth great honour, Though that disdainers would therein put error, For they do sue to get them grace All only riches to purchase. With Good Order, Counsel, and Equity, Good Lord, grant us our mansion to be! For without their good guidance Youth should fall in great mischance. For Youth is frail and prompt to do, As well vices as virtues to ensue. Wherefore by these he must be guided And Virtue's pastance must be therein used. Now unto God this prayer we make, That this rude play may well be take, And that we may our faults amend, An bliss obtain at our last end.

This Luxembourg morning, this Luxembourg autumn, As I walk back and forth upon my youth, No strollers, no fountains, no boats in the water, No children, no flowers. Ah! September flowers and the sunburnt shouts of children Defying the coming winter. Now only two old fellows trying to play tennis. This autumn morning without children—the children’s theater closed! This Luxembourg where I no longer find my youth, The years as fresh as cut grass. Comrades, my dreams are vanquished in despair, are they not? Here they fall like leaves with other leaves, Older, mortally wounded, trampled, bitter with blood, Gathered together for what common grave? I no longer know this Luxembourg, those soldiers at attention. They set up cannons to protect the Senators’ aimless retirement They dig trenches under the bench where I learned about The sweet budding of lips. This sign, ah! yes, of dangerous youth! . . . I watch the leaves fall into these false shelters, into graves Into trenches where the blood of an entire generation flows Europe is burying the nations’ leaven And the hope of new races.

The luncheon voucher years (the bus pass and digitized medical record always in the inside pocket come later, and the constant orientation to the nearest hospital). The years of “sir” (long past “mate,” much less “dearie”), of invisibility, of woozy pacifism, of the preemptive smile of the hard-of-hearing, of stiff joints and the small pains that will do me in. The ninth complement of fresh — stale — cells, the Late Middle Years (say, 1400 AD — on the geological calendar), the years of the incalculable spreading middle, the years of speculatively counting down from an unknown terminus, because the whole long stack — shale, vertebrae, pancakes, platelets, plates — won’t balance anymore, and doesn’t correspond anyway to the thing behind the eyes that says “I” and feels uncertain green and treble and wants its kilt as it climbs up to the lectern to blush and read “thou didst not abhor the virgin’s womb.” The years of taking the stairs two at a time (though not at weekends) a bizarre debt to Dino Buzzati’s Tartar Steppe, the years of a deliberate lightness of tread, perceived as a nod to Franz   Josef thinking with his knees and rubber-tired Viennese Fiaker. The years when the dead are starting to stack up. The years of incuriosity and novarum rerum in cupidissimus, the years of cheap acquisition and irresponsible postponement, or cheap postponement and irresponsible acquisition, of   listlessness, of   miniaturism, of irascibility, of   being soft on myself, of   being hard on myself, and neither knowing nor especially caring which. The years of   re-reading (at arm’s length). The fiercely objected-to professional years, the appalling indulgent years, the years of no challenge and comfort zone and safely within my borders. The years of   no impressions and little memory. The years of standing in elevators under the elevator lights in the elevator mirror, feeling and looking like leathered frizz, an old cheese-topped dish under an infrared hot plate. The years of one over the thirst and another one over the hunger, of   insomnia and sleeping in, of creases and pouches and heaviness and the hairdresser offering to trim my eyebrows. The years of the unbeautiful corpse in preparation. The years to choose:sild, or flamber ...?

Terrace deep as the sky. Stone bench where I sit and read, I wandered by myself Into the heart of the mountains of Yoshino. In one hand a book, in the other, a bag made of newsprint— No weather-beaten bones here Just lychees bought in the market, Thirty rupees per kilogram. Stalks mottled red tied up with string, Flesh the color of pigeon wings— Sweet simmering. Sunlight bruises air Pine trees blacken. Where shall I go? The Dhauladhar peaks Are covered in snow.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his wat'ry bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows: Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea. He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said, But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more". Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales and bid them hither cast Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

Knowlt Hoheimer ran away to the war The day before Curl Trenary Swore out a warrant through Justice Arnett For stealing hogs. But that's not the reason he turned a soldier. He caught me running with Lucius Atherton. We quarreled and I told him never again To cross my path. Then he stole the hogs and went to the war— Back of every soldier is a woman.