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There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand grey to the sun, Singing: ‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, ‘And your English summer's done.’ You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again! Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We’ve seen the seasons through, And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new! It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun Or South to the blind Horn’s hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate— Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp, With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass, It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’ And it's ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread, When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless, viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start— We’re steaming all too slow, And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long?—how long? Pull out on the trail again! The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And The Deuce knows what we may do— But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new!

Not that the pines were darker there, nor mid-May dogwood brighter there, nor swifts more swift in summer air; it was my own country, having its thunderclap of spring, its long midsummer ripening, its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting, almost like any country, yet being mine; its face, its speech, its hills bent low within my reach, its river birch and upland beech were mine, of my own country. Now the dark waters at the bow fold back, like earth against the plow; foam brightens like the dogwood now at home, in my own country.

john   lord knows you still vexed   reckon me too if my wife stole off durin sleepy night   god an de devil only souls up at dat hour even if i knows she bout to be sold south   even if i knows she was leevin   an you did   you so troubled when i talk about leevin call me a fool   call me cudjo   five years wid you john   yo wife bout to be sold away   jus cus you free dis don’t worry you none you laugh   dunno if i’d miss yo laugh if i was in de south tho thank ya jesus gotta room in philadelphia john   aint big but clean nuf room for us   some chirren too   yo baby   i aint too old jus yet jus round thirty-one   i think   make us a home john    one where we’s both free   free from de lash’s shadow free like de lord mean   got dis suit fo ya john   aint nobody worn dese clothes befo walk proud in dese clothese   dese is free mans cloths

O foolish wisdom sought in books! O aimless fret of household tasks! O chains that bind the hand and mind— A fuller life my spirit asks! For there the grand hills, summer-crowned, Slope greenly downward to the seas; One hour of rest upon their breast Were worth a year of days like these. Their cool, soft green to ease the pain Of eyes that ache o’er printed words; This weary noise – the city’s voice, Lulled in the sound of bees and birds. For Eden’s life within me stirs, And scorns the shackles that I wear; The man-life grand – pure soul, strong hand, The limb of steel, the heart of air! And I could kiss, with longing wild, Earth’s dear brown bosom, loved so much, A grass-blade fanned across my hand, Would thrill me like a lover’s touch. The trees would talk with me; the flowers Their hidden meanings each make known— The olden lore revived once more, When man’s and nature’s heart were one! And as the pardoned pair might come Back to the garden God first framed, And hear Him call at even-fall, And answer, ‘Here am I,’ unshamed— So I, from out these toils, wherein The Eden-faith grows stained and dim, Would walk, a child, through nature’s wild, And hear His voice and answer Him.

Not for their ice-pick eyes, their weeping willow hair, and their clenched fists beating at heaven. Not for their warnings, predictions of doom. But what they promised. I don’t care if their beards are mildewed, and the ladders are broken. Let them go on picking the wormy fruit. Let the one with the yoke around his neck climb out of the cistern. Let them come down from the heights in their radiant despair like the Sankei Juko dancers descending on ropes, down from these hills to the earth of their first existence. Let them follow the track we’ve cut on the sides of mountains into the desert, and stumble again through the great rift, littered with bones and the walls of cities. Let them sift through the ashes with their burned hands. Let them tell us what will come after.

Look for me under the hood of that old Chevrolet settled in weeds at the end of the pasture. I'm the radiator that spent its years bolted in front of an engine shoving me forward into the wind. Whatever was in me in those days has mostly leaked away, but my cap's still screwed on tight and I know the names of all these tattered moths and broken grasshoppers the rest of you've forgotten.

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

To you born into violence, the wars of the red ant are nothing; you, in the heart of the eruption. I am speaking from immeasurable grass blades. You, there on the rubble, what is the river of vapor to you? You who are helpless as small birds downed on the ice pack. You who are spoiled as commercial fruit by the medfly. To you the machine guns. To you the semen of fire, the birth of the maggot in the corpse. You, to whom we send these gifts; at the heart of light we are crushed together. When the sun dies we will become one.

I sit where I always sit, in back of the Buddha, Red leather wing chair, pony skin trunk under my feet, Sky light above me, Chinese and Indian rugs on the floor. 1 March, 1998, where to begin again? Over there's the ur-photograph, Giorgio Morandi, glasses pushed up on his forehead, Looking hard at four objects— Two olive oil tins, one wine bottle, one flower vase, A universe of form and structure, The universe constricting in front of his eyes, angelic orders And applications scraped down To paint on an easel stand, some in the frame, some not. Bologna, my friend, Bologna, world's bit and world's end. _________ It's only in darkness you can see the light, only From emptiness that things start to fill, I read once in a dream, I read in a book under the pink Redundancies of the spring peach trees. Old fires, old geographies. In that case, make it old, I say, make it singular In its next resurrection, White violets like photographs on the tombstone of the yard. Each year it happens this way, each year Something dead comes back and lifts up its arms, puts down its luggage And says—in the same costume, down-at-heels, badly sewn— I bring you good news from the other world. _________ One hand on the sun, one hand on the moon, both feet bare, God of the late Mediterranean Renaissance Breaststrokes across the heavens. Easter, and all who've been otherwised peek from their shells, Thunderheads gathering at the rear abyss of things, Lightning, quick swizzle sticks, troubling the dark in-between. You're everything that I'm not, they think, I'll fly away, Lord, I'll fly away. April's agnostic and nickel-plated and skin deep, Glitter and bead-spangle, haute couture, The world its runway, slink-step and glide. Roll the stone slowly as it vogues and turns, roll the stone slowly. _________ Well, that was a month ago. May now, What's sure to arrive has since arrived and been replaced, Snick-snack, lock and load, grey heart's bull's-eye, A little noon music out of the trees, a sonatina in green. Spring passes. Across the room, on the opposite wall, A 19 th century photograph Of the Roman arena in Verona. Inside, stone tiers and stone gate. Over the outer portico, the ghost of Catullus at sky's end. The morning and evening stars never meet, nor summer and spring: Beauty has been my misfortune, hard journey, uncomfortable resting place. Whatever it is I have looked for Is tiny, so tiny it can dance in the palm of my hand. _________ This is the moment of our disregard— just after supper, Unseasonable hail in huddles across the porch, The dogs whimpering, thunder and lightning eddying off toward the east, Nothing to answer back to, nothing to dress us down. Thus do we slide into our disbelief and disaffection, Caught in the weeds and understory of our own lives, Bad weather, bad dreams. Proper attention is our refuge now, our perch and our praise. So? So. The moon has its rain-ring auraed around it— The more that we think we understand, the less we see, Back yard becoming an obelisk Of darkness into the sky, no hieroglyphs, no words to the wise.

among thirty dusty men the only wet thing the mouth of the coyote is a mini zoo we are from many countries in which there are many coyotes 500 bucks and we’re off think about it is the shortest verse of a corrido a gila monster and a coyote are one a gila monster and a coyote and a gringo are one strewn bottles melt dirt the coyote’s tongue fills them we don’t know which to swat the coyote or the froth the mosquitoes or the flies gringos why do you see us illegal don’t you think we are the workers around you we speak different accents yours included and we know también the coyote is suspect of what we say when the coyote hears helicopters in Nike shoes he trots Arizona Nogales whores close their doors the coyote trots Arizona in Nike shoes the desert is still the coyote must be tired in his shadow he sees searchlights it’s day all night it’s dusting and it’s going to dust the coyote rests under yuccas