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for Jay Wright my ole man took me to the fulton fish market we walk around in the guts and the scales my ole man show me a dead fish, eyes like throat spit he say “you hongry boy?” i say “naw, not yet” my ole man show me how to pick the leavings he say people throw away fish that not rotten we scaling on our knees back uptown on lenox sold five fish, keepin one for the pot my ole man copped a bottle of wine he say, “boy, build me a fire out in the lot” backyard cat climbin up my leg for fish i make a fire in the ash can my ole man come when he smell fish frank williams is with him, they got wine my ole man say “the boy cotch the big one” he tell big lie and slap me on the head i give the guts to the cat and take me some wine we walk around the sparks like we in hell my ole man is laughin and coughin up wine he say “you hongry boy” i say “naw, not yet” next time i go to fulton fish market first thing i do is take a long drink of wine

A drain spout splashing rusty stains on concrete, the taste of doorknobs you kiss before squinting through the musty keyhole at the knife-sharpener’s daughter, while across the city the knife-sharpener limps his pushcart with its dinging axles, with its screeching whetstone up wet alleys crying: scissors! knives! axes!

In my sleep: Fell at his feet         wanted to eat him right up would have         but even better he talked to me. Did I ask you to? Were those words my blood-sucking too? Now I will have a body again move differently, easier         back to the plan a little house         a woman and a man crossed against yours my soul will show glow through my breastbone: Back down into the kitchen yours Here         I will save you others have failed, even died, but I will save you         you save me         devour me away up Woke up: I can cry but I can't wake up today again         don't answer the door then did         couldn't look at you talk couldn't place the bed in the room, or where the room was when I closed my eyes This is the same old knife         my knife I know it as well as I know my own mouth It will be lying there on the desk if I open my eyes I will know the room very well there will be the little thrown-out globe of blood we left and every molecule of every object here will swell with life. And someone will be at the door.

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?— By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.— The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;— His soul is with the saints, I trust.

Vinnie Two Crow from the trailer at the school crossroads has walked up through the snow, bringing a loaf of pumpkin bread. Takes her big boots off and sits for coffee.Clem’s always treated us good. —You up here had too much trouble. I open the bread, and she asks about the quilt in my hoop. Stray lightning quilt, charred toys quilt—I don’t need to say that.If you want, she says,I brought some sage along. Good smoke might take away the bad, I told Clem out at the barn. —If you got an old bowl or something to burn it in.

There are those who grow gardens in their heads paths lead from their hair to sunny and white cities it’s easy for them to write they close their eyes immediately schools of images stream down from their foreheads my imagination is a piece of board my sole instrument is a wooden stick I strike the board it answers me yes—yes no—no for others the green bell of a tree the blue bell of water I have a knocker from unprotected gardens I thump on the board and it prompts me with the moralist’s dry poem yes—yes no—no

Knock me or nothing, the things of this world ring in me, shrill-gorged and shrewish, clicking their charms and their chains and their spouts. Let them. Let the fans whirr. All the similar virgins must have emptied their flimsy pockets, and I was empty enough, sugared and stretched on the unmown lawn, dumb as the frost-pink tongues of the unpruned roses. When you put your arms around me in that moment, when you pulled me to you and leaned back, when you lifted me just a few inches, when you shook me hard then, had you ever heard such emptiness? I had room for every girl's locket, every last dime and pocketknife. Oh my out-sung, fierce, unthinkable— why rattle only the world you placed in me? Won't you clutter the unkissed, idiot stars? They blink and blink like quiet shepherds, like brides-about-your-neck. Call them out of that quietness. Knock them in their nothing, against their empty enamel, against the dark that has no way to hold them and no appetite. Call in the dead to touch them. Let them slip on their own chinks of light.

Knocks on the door. Who? I sweep the dust of my loneliness under the rug. I arrange a smile and open.

As day began to break, we passed the “honk for worms” sign, passed it honking again and again, to wake up the worms my dad said. It was only about another half mile to the aspen grove and our worm digs. The humus, spongy and almost black, turned over easily. I used my bare hands to put some moist earth into a coffee can and, as the aspen glittered in the risen sun, I gently slid the fresh, fat bait into my container. I heard the worms still in the ground gurgle as they tried to escape, while the ones in the can began to ball up as their numbers grew. Streamside, surrounded by mountains with snow lingering into summer, I picked out a worm and my dad arranged it on the hook to save my small fingers. Now you can purchase a time-share on that land. The colony of aspen, thinned by the builders, continues to tremble. No amount of honking brings back the worms.

Take hold of the bitter end; pass carefully around the standing part, being mindful of the bight. Finish with a round turn, make the knot up tight and it will not slip under load. But you'll find it not so easily undone; dangerous in the dark and cold and wet, when it matters most. These knots command allegiances. The Turk's head and midshipman's bend, the lighterman's hitch and the hangman's noose. See what names mean: Knots are men. Facing page—a simple eye-splice. Apply a whipping at the end so no strands come loose in the braid. The knot will hold Anything you care to bind.