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We drove past late fall fields as flat and cold as sheets of tin and, in the distance, trees were tossed like coins against the sky. Stunned gold and bronze, oaks, maples stood in twos and threes: some copper bright, a few dull brown and, now and then, the shock of one so steeled with frost it glittered like a dime. The autumn boughs and blackened branches wore a somber gloss that whispered tails to me, not heads. I read memorial columns in their trunks; their leaves spelled UNUM, cent; and yours, the only head . . . in penny profile, Lincoln-like (one sleeve, one eye) but even it was turning tails as russet leaves lay spent across the trails.

The philosopher David Lewis spun a fantasy of two omniscient gods who know about one world, which might as well be ours. Each knows precisely all there is to know, the grand “totality of facts, not things.” Each knows the pattern of the light on each neglected leaf millennia ago. Each knows the number of the stars, their ages, all the distances between them, all the “things too tiny to be remembered in recorded history—the backfiring of a bus/In a Paris street in 1932,” as well as all the things that history distorts or just can’t see, like the thought that must have flashed across Patroklos’s mind (if he’d existed and had had a mind—the middle knowledge of the schoolmen) when Hektor split his stomach with a spear (if he’d existed too). Each one looks on, as though through ordinary eyes, as “Mme Swann’s enormous coachman, supervised by a groom no bigger than his fist and as infantile as St George in the picture, endeavored to curb the ardour of the quivering steel-tipped pinions with which they thundered over the ground,” and sees “the gray ‘toppers’ of old” the gentlemen strolling with her wore, the little “woolen cap from which stuck out two blade-like partridge feathers” that she wore (or would have worn if they and she’d been real). Each monitors the photons through the slits, the slow decay of radium, and knows the ratio of vermouth to gin in someone’s first martini at Larre’s. Each knows what Darragh, Geoff and Willy knew before the bullet or the pavement killed their worlds, and where the shots came from in Dallas. Each knows precisely what the other knows, in all the senses of those words, and if a question has a factual answer, each can answer it. Yet there’s a question neither can resolve: which god am I? The question posits both a world and a unique perspective on that world, which neither has. And if gods One and Two could reify themselves by wondering who or what they were, they’d have to know the answer—and, because they don’t, they can’t. Could gods like those be real, in something like the sense that you and I are real? But then, what sense is that? Gods One and Two are you and I writ large: I wander out into the day and feel the sunlight on my face. I see the sunlight on the first spring leaves like green foam on the trees, and so do you. The world we have in common, that the gods can comprehend in its entirety, remains beyond my grasp, and yours. The world I know belongs entirely to me, as yours belongs entirely to you. I know my world completely, as the gods know ours, because it’s nothing but my take on things, and starts and ends with me. I’m both the author and the captive of my world, because my take on things is all there is to me. When Mary, in Frank Jackson’s philosophical diversion, wanders from her room of black and white and shades of gray and finally sees a rose, and then goes on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, and drinks coffee, and talks for hours, it’s hard to see how all of this(as she might say) could be an artifact of her perspective. But it is. So what? Philosophers tell stories, but they make them up, and what are they to me? Sometimes I think I’m humoring myself (a good thing I suppose) with an extended exercise in nonsense.Have breakfast,have a cup of strong black common sense, get over it, I tell myself, refuting Berkeley with my foot. Instead of this entanglement of self with self, why can’t I just relax into my place inside the natural order, be a thing within the solid scheme of things, a Dane in Denmark? How can fantasies, unreal by definition, show me what I am, and know? How can the poetry of possibilities dissolve the prose of facts? My little life sustains me while it can, and that’s enough. It may be all contingent, but it’s real, and when catastrophes occur, as they inevitably do, I’d rather they occur to me, instead of writing them away, or redefining happiness or sorrow or tranquility as alterations of some abstract point of view that points at nothing. Inescapable illusions must be real, or might as well be real, no matter where reflection on them leads; and if accepting them means taking things on faith, that’s fine. Who wants to be a posit, or a site of possibilities? Who wants to walk out and evaporate into this green spring day? Who wants to have sex with a wraith? No matter where reflection on them leads. It leads, of course, to me. A cri de coeur is not an argument, but where the real argument begins. Hopkins: “searching nature I taste self at one tankard, that of my own being.” Kant: “the feeling of an existence without the least concept,” meaning that despite the certainty I have, I’ve no idea what I really am, or where, and as for “searching nature,” I have no idea even where to start. These matters mean the world to me, and yet no matter how I try to come to grips with them, they slip away.I and here and now are ever present, yet they vanish in the act of apprehension, as a poem turns into language as you write it down. Dimensionless, atemporal, imprisoned in the present—even as I say them to myself the words fall short of what I thought I started out to say, like the conclusion of an argument too close to me to share, or like an empty thought balloon that hangs above me in the air. It’s not the question of what makes me who I am through time—of how a figure in a photograph from 1985, a couple sitting in the garden of the small Hôtel des Marronniers just off the rue Jacob, could be the person who remembers her and thinks of him today—but of what constitutes me now, and of what made me then. If giving it a name won’t help, then neither will pretending it’s divine. If I should be supplanted by a bright recording angel knowing everything about me in the way the gods know all about their world, I wouldn’t have survived. She takes the whole thing in—the house on Maxim Street, the bike rides down the hill on Wabash Street, my high school friends, their friends, the friends of friends of friends—with eyes that monitor my back, my face, the traces in my brain projected on a screen, the n degrees of separation linking me to nearly everyone who’s ever lived, a thing within a wilderness of things, with each one locked inside a universe with no outside, of which there’s nothing she can see. How could it be an afterlife? It’s just a different life, another life, complete or incomplete as anyone’s, consumed by questions that elude it, not because she can’t remember, but because the words that make them up are undefined: which one of them was I? which world was mine?

got up early left the house immediately tore out grass bits of leather in his pockets hit fences with his handkerchief answered yes and no to his own questions lies under grass wilted flowers in his pockets at the fence I pull my handkerchief he liked to say no “I’m no longer the same man” and “nothing is happening to me”

I know better than to leave the house without my good dress, my good knife like Excalibur between my stone breasts. Mother would have me whipped, would have me kneeling on rice until I shrilled so loud I rang the church bells.Didn’t I tell you that elegance is our revenge, that there are neither victims nor victors but the bitch we envy in the end?

Like our  bodies' imprint Not a sign will remain that we were in this place. The world closes behind us, The sand straightens itself. Dates are already in view In which you no longer exist, Already a wind blows clouds Which will not rain on us both. And your name is already in the passenger lists of ships, And in the registers of hotels, Whose names alone Deaden the heart. The three languages I know, All the colors in which I see and dream: None will help me.

She stands beside me, stands away, the vague indifference of her dreams. Dreaming, to go on, and go on there, like animals fleeing the rise of the earth. But standing intangible, my lust a worked anger a sweating close covering, for the crudely salty soul. Then back off, and where you go? Box of words and pictures. Steel balloons tied to our mouths. The room fills up, and the house. Street tilts. City slides, and buildings slide into the river. What is there left, to destroy? That is not close, or closer. Leaning away in the angle of language. Pumping and pumping, all our eyes criss cross and flash. It is the lovers pulling down empty structures. They wait and touch and watch their dreams eat the morning.

Like the small hole by the path-side something lives in, in me are lives I do not know the names of, nor the fates of, nor the hungers of or what they eat. They eat of me. Of small and blemished apples in low fields of me whose rocky streams and droughts I do not drink. And in my streets—the narrow ones, unlabeled on the self-map— they follow stairs down music ears can’t follow, and in my tongue borrowed by darkness, in hours uncounted by the self-clock, they speak in restless syllables of other losses, other loves. There too have been the hard extinctions, missing birds once feasted on and feasting. There too must be machines like loud ideas with tungsten bits that grind the day. A few escape. A mercy. They leave behind small holes that something unweighed by the self-scale lives in.

Lie down, you are horizontal. Stand up, you are not. I wanted my fate to be human. Like a perfume that does not choose the direction it travels, that cannot be straight or crooked, kept out or kept. Yes,No,Or —a day, a life, slips through them, taking off the third skin, taking off the fourth. And the logic of shoes becomes at last simple, an animal question, scuffing. Old shoes, old roads— the questions keep being new ones. Like two negative numbers multiplied by rain into oranges and olives.

1    Dear Milton, Rain. But when you are here, alone, what does it mean. It means psalm — that song sung to the harp. Like trees, we too hold on to the earth — pull and twang for another tongue.It(whatever it is, and who knows that) is a sacred song.It is strange for we are the ones who glorify mystery with our arms. We call it testament because it pries at our souls with many branches, and so you say with a huge eye, we must practice our art like the third stomach of a cud-chewing animal: “Myrtle, Woodbine, Appletrees, Trillium, here they are, the strength of your arm stalls at the open gate of the stars. Feel everything, trust everything!”

One look at the lilac, one smell and my childhood is — dogs scratching at the sliding glass door, bits of bottles coming up like grass in the grass, a dirty towel down by the feet of the tree, Lysol cans, small packets of Land O’Frost turkey meat — there in front of me in spring, in the wonderfully fat rain, flowering purple and whatever the pinkish purple is called and the white ones too. They smell like my siblings, like the backs of my infant son’s ears, like my son whom I would kill someone for. Before he was born I wouldn’t kill anyone. But now I would. And after I’d get a coffee from Starbucks, a coffee and a piece of that amazing lemon-frosted lemon cake and think nothing of it, and read the paper and hold him against my chest and listen to his body living, alive outside his mother’s body, and the lilac outside on the street, outside everyone, and heavy in the rain.