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Saturday morning in late March. I was alone and took a long walk, though I also carried a book of the Alone, which companioned me. The day was clear, unnaturally clear, like a freshly wiped pane of glass, a window over the water, and blue, preternaturally blue, like the sky in a Magritte painting, and cold, vividly cold, so that you could clap your hands and remember winter, which had left a few moments ago— if you strained you could almost see it disappearing over the hills in a black parka. Spring was coming but hadn't arrived yet. I walked on the edge of the park. The wind whispered a secret to the trees, which held their breath and scarcely moved. On the other side of the street, the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe. I walked down to the pier to watch the launching of a passenger ship. Ice had broken up on the river and the water rippled smoothly in blue light. The moon was a faint smudge in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought in the vacant mind of the sky. Seagulls materialized out of vapor amidst the masts and flags. Don't let our voices die on land, they cawed, swooping down for fish and then soaring back upwards. The kiosks were opening and couples moved slowly past them, arm in arm, festive. Children darted in and out of walkways, which sprouted with vendors. Voices greeted the air. Kites and balloons. Handmade signs. Voyages to unknown places. The whole day had the drama of an expectation. Down at the water, the queenly ship started moving away from the pier. Banners fluttered. The passengers clustered at the rails on deck. I stood with the people on shore and waved goodbye to the travelers. Some were jubilant; others were broken-hearted. I have always been both. Suddenly, a great cry went up. The ship set sail for the horizon and rumbled into the future but the cry persisted and cut the air like an iron bell ringing in an empty church. I looked around the pier but everyone else was gone and I was left alone to peer into the ghostly distance. I had no idea where that ship was going but I felt lucky to see it off and bereft when it disappeared.

I had not vomited in so long Someone put the hex on my true-to-selfness Some sorcerer kept me far from my guts The guts I feared would choke me And make me ashamed of having no wings And drown my own heart I know how to survive a feeling But I forgot that I knew it A manic forgetter froze my meats I kept asking for help when I didn't need it My demons stared out from the ice When they finally thawed they'd been dead all along And now I am the walking thawed You survive yourself if you wait long enough And vomit your guts down your defrosted breast And bathe in your mess and say baby it's fine

HORACE IV. i It’s over, love. Look at me pushing fifty now, Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears, The piles and boggy prostate, the crooked penis, The sour taste of each day’s first lie, And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling A swaying bead-chain of moonlight, Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark Along a body like my own, but blameless. What good’s my cut-glass conversation now, Now I’m so effortlessly vulgar and sad? You get from life what you can shake from it? For me, it’s g and t’s all day and CNN. Try the blond boychick lawyer, entry level At eighty grand, who pouts about overtime, Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym, And hash in tinfoil under the office fern. There’s your hound from heaven, with buccaneer Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples. His answering machine always has room for one more Slurred, embarrassed call from you-know-who. Some nights I’ve laughed so hard the tears Won’t stop. Look at me now. Why now? I long ago gave up pretending to believe Anyone’s memory will give as good as it gets. So why these stubborn tears? And why do I dream Almost every night of holding you again, Or at least of diving after you, my long-gone, Through the bruised unbalanced waves?

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers. —Milosz And the few willing to listen demanded that we confess on television. So we kept our sins to ourselves, and they became less troubling. The halt and the lame arranged to have their hips replaced. Lepers coated their sores with a neutral foundation, avoided strong light. The hungry ate at grand buffets and grew huge, though they remained hungry. Prisoners became indistinguishable from the few who visited them. Widows remarried and became strangers to their kin. The orphans finally grew up and learned to fend for themselves. Even the prophets suspected they were mad, and kept their mouths shut. Only the poor—who are with us always—only they continued in the hope.

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year, I felt a door opening in me and I entered the clarity of early morning. One after another my former lives were departing, like ships, together with their sorrow. And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas assigned to my brush came closer, ready now to be described better than they were before. I was not separated from people, grief and pity joined us. We forget—I kept saying—that we are all children of the King. For where we come from there is no division into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be. We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part of the gift we received for our long journey. Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago— a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel staving its hull against a reef—they dwell in us, waiting for a fulfillment. I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard, as are all men and women living at the same time, whether they are aware of it or not.

I really think its getting to be that time,

Before the moths have even appeared to orbit around them, the streetlamps come on, a long row of them glowing uselessly along the ring of garden that circles the city center, where your steps count down the dulling of daylight. At your feet, a bee crawls in small circles like a toy unwinding. Summer specializes in time, slows it down almost to dream. And the noisy day goes so quiet you can hear the bedraggled man who visits each trash receptacle mutter in disbelief:Everything in the world is being thrown away! Summer lingers, but it’s about ending. It’s about how things redden and ripen and burst and come down. It’s when city workers cut down trees, demolishing one limb at a time, spilling the crumbs of twigs and leaves all over the tablecloth of street. Sunglasses! the man softly exclaims while beside him blooms a large gray rose of pigeons huddled around a dropped piece of bread.

I can’t undress from the pressure of leaves, the lobed edges leaning toward the window like an unwanted male gaze on the backside, (they wish to bless and bless and hush). What if I want to go devil instead? Bow down to the madness that makes me. Drone of the neighbor’s mowing, a red mailbox flag erected, a dog bark from three houses over, and this is what a day is. Beetle on the wainscoting, dead branch breaking, but not breaking, stones from the sea next to stones from the river, unanswered messages like ghosts in the throat, a siren whining high toward town repeating that the emergency is not here, repeating that this loud silence is only where you live.

Snow melts into the earth and a gentle breeze Loosens the damp gum wrappers, the stale leaves Left over from autumn, and the dead brown grass. The sky shakes itself out. And the invisible birds Winter put away somewhere return, the air relaxes, People start to circulate again in twos and threes. The dominant feelings are the blue sky, and the year. —Memories of other seasons and the billowing wind; The light gradually altering from difficult to clear As a page melts and a photograph develops in the backyard. When some men came to tear down the garage across the way The light was still clear, but the salt intoxication Was already dissipating into the atmosphere of constant day April brings, between the isolation and the flowers. Now the clouds are lighter, the branches are frosted green, And suddenly the season that had seemed so tentative before Becomes immediate, so clear the heart breaks and the vibrant Air is laced with crystal wires leading back from hell. Only the distraction, and the exaggerated sense of care Here at the heart of spring—all year long these feelings Alternately wither and bloom, while a dense abstraction Hides them. But now the mental dance of solitude resumes, And life seems smaller, placed against the background Of this story with the empty, moral quality of an expansive Gesture made up out of trees and clouds and air. The loneliness comes and goes, but the blue holds, Permeating the early leaves that flutter in the sunlight As the air dances up and down the street. Some kids yell. A white dog rolls over on the grass and barks once. And Although the incidents vary and the principal figures change, Once established, the essential tone and character of a season Stays inwardly the same day after day, like a person’s. The clouds are frantic. Shadows sweep across the lawn And up the side of the house. A dappled sky, a mild blue Watercolor light that floats the tense particulars away As the distraction starts. Spring here is at first so wary, And then so spare that even the birds act like strangers, Trying out the strange air with a hesitant chirp or two, And then subsiding. But the season intensifies by degrees, Imperceptibly, while the colors deepen out of memory, The flowers bloom and the thick leaves gleam in the sunlight Of another city, in a past which has almost faded into heaven. And even though memory always gives back so much more of What was there than the mind initially thought it could hold, Where will the separation and the ache between the isolated Moments go when summer comes and turns this all into a garden? Spring here is too subdued: the air is clear with anticipation, But its real strength lies in the quiet tension of isolation And living patiently, without atonement or regret, In the eternity of the plain moments, the nest of care —Until suddenly, all alone, the mind is lifted upward into Light and air and the nothingness of the sky, Held there in that vacant, circumstantial blue until, In the vehemence of a landscape where all the colors disappear, The quiet absolution of the spirit quickens into fact, And then, into death. But the wind is cool. The buds are starting to open on the trees. Somewhere up in the sky an airplane drones.

The worms which had been thick are thin upon the ground now that it's gotten later. They stick against the path, their pink chapped and their inching labored. It's a matter of moisture isn't it? Time, a measure of wet, shrinking, the drier you get.