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So that the truant boy may go steady with the State, So that in his spine a memory of wings Will make his shoulders tense & bend Like a thing already flown When the bracelets of another school of love Are fastened to his wrists, Make a law that doesn’t have to wait Long until someone comes along to break it. So that in jail he will have the time to read How the king was beheaded & the hawk that rode The king’s wrist died of a common cold, And learn that chivalry persists, And what first felt like an insult to the flesh Was the blank ‘o’ of love. Put the fun back into punishment. Make a law that loves the one who breaks it. So that no empty court will make a  judge recall Ice fishing on some overcast bay, Shivering in the cold beside his father, it ought To be an interesting law, The kind of thing that no one can obey, A law that whispers “Break me.” Let the crows roost & caw. A good judge is an example to us all. So that the patrolman can still whistle “The Yellow Rose of Texas” through his teeth And even show some faint gesture of respect While he cuffs the suspect, Not ungently, & says things like ok , That’s it

We will eventually be archaeology, but now in America I tell my young daughter the new headlights are a bluish-white instead of the murky yellow of my upbringing. She’s busy with her bubble-making, her dig in the flower bed, her pantomimed banquet, phantom guests dining on her small handfuls of weeds and grasses. Precisely, the lit up jackrabbits appear in peculiar blue candor under the stoplight dusk, pigeons hued reddish are garrulous and incomprehensible as drunks at the end of the cocktail hour. It’s that time in America when the air is overgrowth. The piquancy of coriander neighbors allowed to flower mingles with fragrances we douse our clothes-lined laundry in each week to cloister the body’s reeking. Truck smoke from the interstate. I’m out-of-doors, which is to say nature is hemmed in by doors, which is to say nature is a category of my making, and I can’t say why the skittish, black bugs flit into the house when there’s so much turf afforded them already, but tonight I’ll crush a few with a Newsweek before sleeping. Now, it’s that time in America in the out-of-doors beneath tree and trellis and vapor trails of overnight flights fare-thee-welling to London and Morocco. Brandy in soda water, a xylophone jingle of the ice, I sit in my Adirondack without my minute, Midwestern wife who Tuesday returns from her summit in Cleveland. It’s that time when I’m alone in America with my young daughter who startles herself realizing the woodpile beneath that black oak is itself formerly a tree, and she wants to know whether these trees have feelings. It’s this acquaintance with death she so improves upon annually. It’s in this precise moment in America that I realize this acquainting, this becoming familiar, this cordiality with death is the entire task of her growing older. Next year her ficus will die and the next year her minnow will die, and it’s in these moments in America when my daughter’s plump lip quivers in a preface to bawling, when I’m alone and can do too little, I say, I’m sorry life is too much, my love, I’m sorry my love, it isn’t enough.

I find it helpful to imagine writing in a blizzard with every inscription designed to prevent snow crystals from drifting in. Avoid the hive mind. Go fly a kite, raise a stained glass window in the sky. It’s the opposite of making love to drudgery, what I do for a dying. Remove the bitter sediment trapped in the brewer. It will be new whether you make it new or not. It will be full of neo- shadows. Full of then— both past and next, iridescent with suspense. Remember time is not the treasure revealer. More a midge larva creeping through a waterfall releasing suction feet. The curiosity rover lands on Mars! New is a hooligan. It breaks the reckoning frame and rests in pieces. Let me collect its dna from the tears on your desk.

My mother does not trust women without it. What are they not hiding? Renders the dead living and the living more alive. Everything I say sets the clouds off blubbering like they knew the pretty dead. True, no mascara, no evidence. Blue sky, blank face. Blank face, a faithful liar, false bottom. Sorrow, a rabbit harbored in the head. The skin, a silly one-act, concurs. At the carnival, each child's cheek becomes a rainbow. God, grant me a brighter myself. Each breath, a game called Live Forever. I am small. Don't ask me to reconcile one shadow with another. I admit— paint the dead pink, it does not make them sunrise. Paint the living blue, it does not make them sky, or sea, a berry, clapboard house, or dead. God, leave us our costumes, don't blow in our noses, strip us to the underside of skin. Even the earth claims color once a year, dressed in red leaves as the trees play Grieving.

I am putting makeup on empty space all patinas convening on empty space rouge blushing on empty space I am putting makeup on empty space pasting eyelashes on empty space painting the eyebrows of empty space piling creams on empty space painting the phenomenal world I am hanging ornaments on empty space gold clips, lacquer combs, plastic hairpins on empty space I am sticking wire pins into empty space I pour words over empty space, enthrall the empty space packing, stuffing jamming empty space spinning necklaces around empty space Fancy this, imagine this: painting the phenomenal world bangles on wrists pendants hung on empty space I am putting my memory into empty space undressing you hanging the wrinkled clothes on a nail hanging the green coat on a nail dancing in the evening it ended with dancing in the evening I am still thinking about putting makeup on empty space I want to scare you: the hanging night, the drifting night, the moaning night, daughter of troubled sleep I want to scare you you I bind as far as cold day goes I bind the power of 20 husky men I bind the seductive colorful women, all of them I bind the massive rock I bind the hanging night, the drifting night, the moaning night, daughter of troubled sleep I am binding my debts, I magnetize the phone bill bind the root of my pointed tongue I cup my hands in water, splash water on empty space water drunk by empty space Look what thoughts will do   Look what words will do from nothing to the face from nothing to the root of the tongue from nothing to speaking of empty space I bind the ash tree I bind the yew I bind the willow I bind uranium I bind the uneconomical unrenewable energy of uranium dash uranium to empty space I bind the color red I seduce the color red to empty space I put the sunset in empty space I take the blue of his eyes and make an offering to empty space renewable blue I take the green of everything coming to life, it grows & climbs into empty space I put the white of the snow at the foot of empty space I clasp the yellow of the cat's eyes sitting in the black space I clasp them to my heart, empty space I want the brown of this floor to rise up into empty space Take the floor apart to find the brown, bind it up again under spell of empty space I want to take this old wall apart I am rich in my mind thinking of this, I am thinking of putting makeup on empty space Everything crumbles around empty space the thin dry weed crumbles, the milkweed is blown into empty space I bind the stars reflected in your eye from nothing to these typing fingers from nothing to the legs of the elk from nothing to the neck of the deer from nothing to porcelain teeth from nothing to the fine stand of pine in the forest I kept it going when I put the water on when I let the water run sweeping together in empty space There is a better way to say empty space Turn yourself inside out and you might disappear you have a new definition in empty space What I like about impermanence is the clash of my big body with empty space I am putting the floor back together again I am rebuilding the wall I am slapping mortar on bricks I am fastening the machine together with delicate wire There is no eternal thread, maybe there is thread of pure gold I am starting to sing inside about the empty space there is some new detail every time I am taping the picture I love so well on the wall: moonless black night beyond country-plaid curtains everything illuminated out of empty space I hang the black linen dress on my body the hanging night, the drifting night, the moaning night daughter of troubled sleep This occurs to me I hang up a mirror to catch stars, everything occurs to me out in the night in my skull of empty space I go outside in starry ice I build up the house again in memory of empty space This occurs to me about empty space that it is nevered to be mentioned again Fancy this imagine this painting the phenomenal world there's talk of dressing the body with strange adornments to remind you of a vow to empty space there's talk of the discourse in your mind like a silkworm I wish to venture into a not-chiseled place I pour sand on the ground Objects and vehicles emerge from the fog the canyon is dangerous tonight suddenly there are warning lights The patrol is helpful in the manner of guiding there is talk of slowing down there is talk of a feminine deity I bind her with a briar I bind with the tooth of a tiger I bind with my quartz crystal I magnetize the worlds I cover myself with jewels I drink amrita there is some new detail there is a spangle on her shoe there is a stud on her boot the tires are studded for the difficult climb I put my hands to my face I am putting makeup on empty space I wanted to scare you with the night that scared me the drifting night, the moaning night Someone was always intruding to make you forget empty space you put it all on you paint your nails you put on scarves all the time adorning empty space Whatever-your-name-is I tell you “empty space” with your fictions with dancing come around to it with your funny way of singing come around to it with your smiling come to it with your enormous retinue & accumulation come around to it with your extras come round to it with your good fortune, with your lazy fortune come round to it when you look most like a bird, that is the time to come around to it when you are cheating, come to it when you are in your anguished head when you are not sensible when you are insisting on the praise from many tongues It begins with the root of the tongue it begins with the root of the heart there is a spinal cord of wind singing & moaning in empty space

I'm feeling by ear. Consider them gods and not cruel but ecstatic. They have trick tongues and can't talk straight but use us as waves to curve words. In this moment we are here for their ride. Climb on under. Transport poetics in the transtraditionals, revering rumors revved high. We ask forgiveness for poem talk. I'm on her knees. She makes me say these things because she is a middle way like no other. The method is to wear me down to a base line vital pulse. Next pour right through carefully following the barely perceptible impulse. Almost dreams the state resists the name but go ahead and call it poetic that flares. Poetics remains neutral on its name but takes care when it comes to hers. There's a watch out on her names. It makes me wait until I have nothing else to fight with and then sets me loose. When I think what is being said I get a lump in the stomach. No go on the intellectual gizmo. Yes on any kind of lift, free run, no drift, too swift, the actual thing getting a lift. It hits the beat like rock bottom. The tongue gets hands on quick. The hearback suddenly gets high in the sense of crossing right on over.

Of 385 varieties, to make the simplest all you need are two sticks: one vertical; the other, horizontal. Call one time; one, space or life—death, good—evil, male—female. You choose. Any polarity will do as long as the cross-piece cuts across the one upright. Now, it's a human form with arms outstretched. Rub them together. A couple of sparks, a few more, a flash of light, a slow increase in heat, and radiating around you: uncontainable fire.

its method is men the fact and the game disorder grounded expressed real named the facts of life the planet its field the same day vehicles lived by the masses become contemplative attitudes powered by the joys of this world a glorious sign propagated with lightning speed at the same time its goal the use of time the speed of transport the margin of life the rational journeys by another path none of it bad the work from his world themselves rediscovers nature its essential green easily seen through like a window but intimate like a summer meadow as a result cold dreams draw misty truths to the surface official forgetfulness looks back on and chooses to forget the first half of to focus discussion on the second half like "I'm fine" as a journey all to itself and beautiful to the voyager particularly this service its servants our passage of time vanishes quickly like a leaf its eulogy a terrestrial paradise the very spirit of the renaissance to act on the basis of an obsession with death well, death pronounce it be-u-ti-full slowly revealed to eliminate this lived time men live in sea turtles to the laws

We set up an assembly line. I heat the tortillas in manteca after Crystal dips them in chile ancho and drains them. Niles carries full plates of hot tortillas to his father, who rolls them around spoonfuls of filling. When we’ve finished the hot, greasy work, I pour the last of the sauce over neat rows of stuffed tortillas, sprinkle them with cheese, clean the stove and counters. The kids help their father rinse plates and pans. They don’t know this is the last time. The cheese melts. Crystal dances to “No More Lonely Nights” on the radio. Niles and his dad joke and wrestle. After grace, we sit before steaming plates. The kids stuff their mouths, insult each other, and laugh. We can’t avoid their eyes forever. Their father and I stare at each other across the table.

He could not,no, he could not,no, although He wheedled and cajoled, begged and promised, But they would not,no, they would not Take him to see The Curse of Frankenstein. Then his uncle called and offered and they caved. So next it was the matinee then home And nothing said, until he sat through dinner like Some little diplomat, and after that excused himself And took his plate and headed up to bed. Still nothing said.No, but midnight he woke up screaming. Morning, his father cleared the plates then turned, “That’s that,” he summarized, “too anatomical.” “What’s anatomical?” the boy asked back. This was summer 1957. Monarchs foraged flowers, working colors With their yes-now-no-now light arrhythmias. By afternoon leaves shimmered in the heat, And in the evening intermittent waves Of fireflies telegraphed their kind While in the little deeps of darkened houses Window units swallowed oceans of air, Until the boy, deep in his house, slept hard enough That when he woke he couldn’t close his hands. “But what was anatomical?” he asked again. His father climbed a ladder to the attic where He bumped around then climbed back down Carrying an old foxed Gray’s Anatomy Packed full with illustrations, what seeing these The boy felt certain were the pictures of mixed meats. That night the windows purred, and nothing budged, Till breakfast brought another book, this time One on pathology, which meant more pictures plus Diseases, where the worst were best And came from “intimate contact.” “But what was intimate?” he later pestered, Till his father downed his drink and said, “That’s how you made your way into this world.” Mother rose and left the room. The boy sat silent; He sat there calmer than the noggin of a cat, Until he stretched and, yawning, mentioned that He might just go on up and get to bed. But secretly he understood; he knew For good-and-always that in fact His father wasn’t a serious man So he was on his own and had to make Sense out of things himself, even if Some sense went wrong, like Frankenstein’s, Who wasn’t a serious man either — And that was really that, even if it meant You’d sink one day without so much as SOS. Some nights that summer, sleepless, eyes pinned wide, He’d slip outdoors to watch his parents on the porch, Their cigarettes, their quiet talk, and then, For nothing he could tell, their laughter as His father fixed another round of drinks. And after that more laughter, like cicadas. The boy watched this, as now he sometimes drives The five miles out-of-way to see that house again. And, never-you-mind his knowing better, Sometimes just his doing this sets off Imaginings that he is standing in the kitchen Saying, “Oh my dear animal family, How I loved you. How richly we purred.” And sometimes too it sweeps back over him, His thinking that his father wasn’t a serious man. Those times, slowing the car, he says to himself, “Well then, you are not a serious man either.”