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On the telephone, friends mistake us now when we first say hello—not after. And that oddly optimistic lilt we share nourishes my hopes: we do sound happy. . . . Last night, in my dream’s crib, a one-day infant girl. I wasn’t totally unprepared— there was the crib, and cotton kimonos, not just a padded dresser drawer. And then, I knew I could drive to the store for the tiny, funny clothes my daughter wears. I was in a familiar room and leaned over the rail, crooning Hello, and the smiling baby— she’d be too young for speech, I know, or smiles— gurgled back at me,Hullo. —If I could begin again, I’d hold her longer, closer! Maybe that way, when night opens into morning, and all my windows gape at the heartbreaking street, my dreams wouldn’t pierce so, I wouldn’t hold my breath at the parts of my life still in hiding, my childhood’s white house where I lunged toward the flowers of love as if I were courting death. . . . Over the crib, a mobile was spinning, bright birds going nowhere, primary colors, primary as mothering once seemed. . . . Later, I wonder why I dreamt that dream, yearning for what I’ve had, and have why it was my mother’s room, the blonde moderne bedroom set hidden under years of junk—a spare room’s the nicest way to put it, though now all her crowded rooms are spare—

There once was a Square, such a square little Square, And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her skirt Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread Of domestic woes and wrangles; For he thought that his fate was to procreate Cute little Squares and Triangles. Now it happened one day on that geometric way There swaggered a big bold Cube, With a haughty stare and he made that Square Have the air of a perfect boob; To his solid spell the Triangle fell, And she thrilled with love’s sweet sickness, For she took delight in his breadth and height— But how she adored his thickness! So that poor little Square just died of despair, For his love he could not strangle; While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed That cute and acute Triangle. The Square’s sad lot she has long forgot, And his passionate pretensions ... For she dotes on her kids—Oh such cute Pyramids In a world of three dimensions.

I have envied those who make something useful, sturdy— a chair, a pair of boots. Even a soup, rich with potatoes and cream. Or those who fix, perhaps, a leaking window: strip out the old cracked putty, lay down cleanly the line of the new. You could learn, the mirror tells me, late at night, but lacks conviction. One reflected eyebrow quivers a little. I look at this borrowed apartment— everywhere I question it, the wallpaper’s pattern matches. Yesterday a woman showed me a building shaped like the overturned hull of a ship, its roof trusses, under the plaster, lashed with soaked rawhide, the columns’ marble painted to seem like wood. Though possibly it was the other way around? I look at my unhandy hand, innocent, shaped as the hands of others are shaped. Even the pen it holds is a mystery, really. Rawhide, it writes, and chair, and marble. Eyebrow. Later the woman asked me— I recognized her then, my sister, my own young self— Does a poem enlarge the world, or only our idea of the world?

I would invoke that man Who chipped for all posterity an ass (The one that Jesus rode) Out of hard stone, and set its either wing Among the wings of the most saintly clan On Chartres Cathedral, and that it might sing The praise to all who pass Of its unearthly load, Hung from its neck a harp-like instrument. I would invoke that man To aid my argument. The ass smiles on us all, Being astonished that an ass might rise To such sure eminence Not merely among asses but mankind, Simpers, almost, upon the western wall In praise of folly, who midst sow and kine, Saw with its foolish eyes Gold, Myrrh, and Frankincense Enter the stable door, against all odds. The ass smiles on us all. Our butt at last is God’s. That man is but an ass— More perfectly, that ass is but a man Who struggles to describe Our rich, contingent and substantial world In ideal signs: the dunged and pagan grass, Misted in summer, or the mother-of-pearled Home of the bachelor-clam. A cold and toothless tribe Has he for brothers, who would coldly think. That man is but an ass Who smells not his own stink. For all his abstract style Speaks not to our humanity, and shows Neither the purity Of heaven, nor the impurity beneath, And cannot see the feasted crocodile Ringed with St. Francis’ birds to pick its teeth, Nor can his thought disclose To normal intimacy, Siamese twins, the double-beasted back, For all his abstract style Utters our chiefest lack. Despite his abstract style, Pickerel will dawdle in their summer pools Lit by the flitterings Of light dashing the gusty surfaces, Or lie suspended among shades of bile And lime in fluent shift, for all he says. And all the grey-haired mules, Simple and neuter things, Will bray hosannas, blessing harp and wing. For all his abstract style, The ass will learn to sing.

On a mountain flat with snow a blue cloud paints a last touch of life. There’s endless harm in trying a dead body on for size. The gentleman stands out in every detail, except color. He considers his life of a madness that breaks unexpected (one boy had a sweetheart he wore her hair round his finger it kept it from falling off with the rest) or comes also if he composes it (lift one eye shut, put rifle butt in the slack jaw of soldiers decomposing). He fell in love like a woman in the folded arms of a drying sweater: touched one shoulder and a whole platoon was affixed with smiles. Teeth already loose falling from their envelopes thick folded letters in a dead white mist.

from the Purgatorio of Dante, Canto 28, lines 1-51 And earnest to explore within—around— The divine wood, whose thick green living woof Tempered the young day to the sight—I wound Up the green slope, beneath the forest’s roof, With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain’s steep, And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof Against the air, that in that stillness deep And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare, The slow, soft stroke of a continuous ... In which the ... leaves tremblingly were All bent towards that part where earliest The sacred hill obscures the morning air. Yet were they not so shaken from the rest, But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray, Incessantly renewing their blithe quest, With perfect joy received the early day, Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound Kept a low burden to their roundelay, Such as from bough to bough gathers around The pine forest on bleak Chiassi’s shore, When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound. My slow steps had already borne me o’er Such space within the antique wood, that I Perceived not where I entered any more,— When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by, Bending towards the left through grass that grew Upon its bank, impeded suddenly My going on. Water of purest hue On earth, would appear turbid and impure Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew, Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms The rays of moon or sunlight ne’er endure. I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms Which starred that night, when, even as a thing That suddenly, for blank astonishment, Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,— A solitary woman! and she went Singing and gathering flower after flower, With which her way was painted and besprent. Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power To bear true witness of the heart within, Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower Towards this bank. I prithee let me win This much of thee, to come, that I may hear Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen, Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when She lost the Spring, and Ceres her more dear.

After the biopsy, after the bone scan, after the consult and the crying, for a few hours no one could find them, not even my sister, because it turns out they'd gone to the movies. Something tragic was playing, something epic, and so they went to the comedy with their popcorn and their cokes, the old wife whispering everything twice, the old husband cupping a palm to his ear, as the late sun lit up an orchard behind the strip mall, and they sat in the dark holding hands.

A girl in a green mini- skirt, not very pretty, walks down the street. A businessman stops, turns to stare at her ass that looks like a moldy refrigerator. There are now 200,000,000 people in America.

I I’ve felt undeserving. I’ve made myself ill with the glory, in the unleavened garden disgorged the lies and scared away with a stick a snake. What made me cover that which I could not have? I’ve grieved and walked in catacombs, I’ve felt undeserving. I’ve made myself ill with the glory. Even the falling leaves gesture their renunciation. I disgorge the lies and abhor the serpent’s hiss. I remember seasons, things I bring from far away, and grieve. I walk in catacombs. In gardens now, by the stone walls, sunlight closes, the falling leaves gesture their renunciation. I remember being in a field touching a man’s body. I remember seasons, things I bring from far away and things that hold their breath for shame. His skin was soft as a girl’s and he closed his eyes. I placed apple petals on his eyelids; we were lying in a field and I touched his body. Then there were clouds, an uncanny silence, as when in a green place the air holds its breath for shame. What made me covet what I could not have? Ill with the power and glory, a thrashing in my chest, I remember the unleavened gardens, petals falling singly, the yellow snake disgorging lies. II I’ve grieved and walked in catacombs. I’ve felt undeserving. I’ve made myself ill with the glory, power and glory-- a thrashing in my rib cage. I’ve gone into the unleavened spring garden, disgorged the lies, and scared away with a stick a snake. I’ve grieved and walked in catacombs. What made me cover that which I could not have? I’ve felt undeserving. In this bright land that changes from yellow to green and back to yellow, I remember seasons, things I bring with me from far away and things that hold their breath as if for shame. I’ve made myself ill with the power and glory. I’ve gone into the unleavened garden and startled a yellow snake disgorging lies. A thrashing in my rib cage. What made me cover what I could not have? I remember   seasons. Things that hold their breath for shame. Things I bring with me from far away. III I’ve made myself ill with the power and glory. I’ve made myself ill with the power and glory.

One was quite certain that for a long part of his being one being living he had been trying to be certain that he was wrong in doing what he was doing and then when he could not come to be certain that he had been wrong in doing what he had been doing, when he had completely convinced himself that he would not come to be certain that he had been wrong in doing what he had been doing he was really certain then that he was a great one and he certainly was a great one. Certainly every one could be certain of this thing that this one is a great one. Some said of him, when anybody believed in him they did not then believe in any other one. Certainly some said this of him. He certainly very clearly expressed something. Some said that he did not clearly express anything. Some were certain that he expressed something very clearly and some of such of them said that he would have been a greater one if he had not been one so clearly expressing what he was expressing. Some said he was not clearly expressing what he was expressing and some of such of them said that the greatness of struggling which was not clear expression made of him one being a completely great one. Some said of him that he was greatly expressing something struggling. Some said of him that he was not greatly expressing something struggling. He certainly was clearly expressing something, certainly sometime any one might come to know that of him. Very many did come to know it of him that he was clearly expressing what he was expressing. He was a great one. Any one might come to know that of him. Very many did some to know that of him. Some who came to know that of him, that he was a great one, that he was clearly expressing something, came then to be certain that he was not greatly expressing something being struggling. Certainly he was expressing something being struggling. Any one could be certain that he was expressing something being struggling. Some were certain that he was greatly expressing this thing. Some were certain that he was not greatly expressing this thing. Every one could come to be certain that he was a great man. Any one could come to be certain that he was clearly expressing something. Some certainly were wanting to be needing to be doing what he was doing, that is clearly expressing something. Certainly they were willing to be wanting to be a great one. They were, that is some of them, were not wanting to be needing expressing anything being struggling. And certainly he was one not greatly expressing something being struggling, he was a great one, he was clearly expressing something. Some were wanting to be doing what he was doing that is clearly expressing something. Very many were doing what he was doing, not greatly expressing something being struggling. Very many were wanting to be doing what he was doing were not wanting to be expressing anything being struggling. There were very many wanting to be doing what he was doing that is to be one clearly expressing something. He was certainly a great man, any one could be really certain of this thing, every one could be certain of this thing. There were very many who were wanting to be ones doing what he was doing that is to be ones clearly expressing something and then very many of them were not wanting to be being ones doing that thing, that is clearly expressing something, they wanted to be ones expressing something being struggling, something being going to be some other thing, something being going to be something some one sometime would be clearly expressing and that would be something that would be a thing then that would then be greatly expressing some other thing than that thing, certainly very many were then not wanting to be doing what this one was doing clearly expressing something and some of them had been ones wanting to be doing that thing wanting to be ones clearly expressing something. Some were wanting to be ones doing what this one was doing wanted to be ones clearly expressing something. Some of such of them were ones certainly clearly expressing something, that was in them a thing not really interesting then any other one. Some of such of them went on being all their living ones wanting to be clearly expressing something and some of them were clearly expressing something. This one was one very many were knowing some and very many were glad to meet him, very many sometimes listened to him, some listened to him very often, there were some who listened to him, and he talked then and he told them then that certainly he had been one suffering and he was then being one trying to be certain that he was wrong in doing what he was doing and he had come then to be certain that he never would be certain that he was doing what it was wrong for him to be doing then and he was suffering then and he was certain that he would be one doing what he was doing and he was certain that he should be one doing what he was doing and he was certain that he would always be one suffering and this then made him certain this, that he would always be one being suffering, this made him certain that he was expressing something being struggling and certainly very many were quite certain that he was greatly expressing something being struggling. This one was one knowing some who were listening to him and he was telling very often about being one suffering and this was not a dreary thing to any one hearing that then, it was not a saddening thing to any one hearing it again and again, to some it was quite an interesting thing hearing it again and again, to some it was an exciting thing hearing it again and again, some knowing this one and being certain that this one was a great man and was one clearly expressing something were ones hearing this one telling about being one being living were hearing this one telling this thing again and again. Some who were ones knowing this one and were ones certain that this one was one who was clearly telling something, was a great man, were not listening very often to this one telling again and again about being one being living. Certainly some who were certain that this one was a great man and one clearly expressing something and greatly expressing something being struggling were listening to this one telling about being living telling about this again and again and again. Certainly very many knowing this one and being certain that this one was a great man and that this one was clearly telling something were not listening to this one telling about being living, were not listening to this one telling this again and again. This one was certainly a great man, this one was certainly clearly expressing something. Some were certain that this one was clearly expressing something being struggling, some were certain that this one was not greatly expressing something being struggling. Very many were not listening again and again to this one telling about being one being living.  Some were listening again and again to this one telling about this one being one being in living. Some were certainly wanting to be doing what this one was doing that is were wanting to be ones clearly expressing something. Some of such of them did not go on in being ones wanting to be doing what this one was doing that is in being ones clearly expressing something. Some went on being ones wanting to be doing what this one was doing that is, being ones clearly expressing something. Certainly this one was one who was a great man. Any one could be certain of this thing. Every one would come to be certain of this thing. This one was one, some were quite certain, one greatly expressing something being struggling. This one was one, some were quite certain, one not greatly expressing something being struggling.