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How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapp'd in their winding-sheet? Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise. Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these times To have seen thee, their sex's only glory. So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!

1 Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand- fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins (1st & 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style, they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me; they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee. I have at one time or another been in love with my mother, 1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum), and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece (she sends me letters written in large block print, and her picture is the only one that smiles at me). I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews, and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took off and caught a freight (they say). He’s discussed each year when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in the clan, he is an empty space. My father’s mother, who is 93 and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody’s birth dates (and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.” 2 Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr / like a salmon quitting the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birthstream / I hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my packet and a monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks. I walked barefooted in my grandmother’s backyard / I smelled the old land and the woods / I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men / I flirted with the women / I had a ball till the caps ran out and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother and split / my guts were screaming for junk / but I was almost contented / I had almost caught up with me. (The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker’s crib for a fix.) This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them, they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children to float in the space between.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night. Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker’s rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

It wasn't holy so let us not praise gods. Let us not look to them for bread, nor the cup that changed water to wine. Let us look to the bend of the road that reaches. A silver blur across the skyline, woman standing on the farm. In her grasp, the shine that is seed, that is beginning. She will work the earth, bounty in the vault of cosmos above her, heat lightning that lassoes in its manic current. Man never existed but to invite danger. Loveless one. There was once an army of men, saluting from bayonet to bomb. They were expert at sabotage, hand combat. You stop the clock in your paltry chest. The one that says choose, choose. Wind that desired backward. Ring the alarm. When you wake, no more pain. A mirror like a window looking out. What can your past now say to you that has never been said before? What of that clock that forbade you to move forward. What of the clock that asked for nothing but passage, the minutes careening into you like a fitful arrow. What of the clock that summoned nothing, not even mercy. Once you tired of wanting, a face to break, you started the clock again.

for Nolan Miller For us, too, there was a wish to possess Something beyond the world we knew, beyond ourselves, Beyond our power to imagine, something nevertheless In which we might see ourselves; and this desire Came always in passing, in waning light, and in such cold That ice on the valley’s lakes cracked and rolled, And blowing snow covered what earth we saw, And scenes from the past, when they surfaced again, Looked not as they had, but ghostly and white Among false curves and hidden erasures; And never once did we feel we were close Until the night wind said, “Why do this, Especially now? Go back to the place you belong;” And there appeared , with its windows glowing, small, In the distance, in the frozen reaches, a cabin; And we stood before it, amazed at its being there, And would have gone forward and opened the door, And stepped into the glow and warmed ourselves there, But that it was ours by not being ours, And should remain empty. That was the idea.

I was the lonely one in whom they swarmed in the millions. I was their creature and I was grateful. I could sleep when I wanted. I lived a divided existence in sleepdreams that lit up a silence as dreadful as that of the moon. I have an overly-precise recall of those solitary years before I opened the curtain and drew upon a universe of want that made me so strong I could crack spines of books with one hand.

No woman wants to be low-hanging fruit, my glamorous girlfriend says, but I’m indiscriminate and love all fruit, I’m tempted to list each kind right here, in and out of season, because even just saying the names gives me pleasure, as does saying your name. I’m not alone with my passion — my whole family, we’re a little off in this regard, we can spend hours talking about cantaloupe or arguing over how many flats to buy when it’s Peach-O-Rama at the Metropolitan. Once I even drove half a day to get to Pence Orchards where I met and took photos of Bert Pence, who sold me three boxes of peaches at wholesale prices. He was so good to me, as was the late-summer freestone I picked as I walked back through the orchard in the August heat to the entrance gates, which were nothing like the Gates of Hell. On the contrary, I was in heaven there in Yakima. I can still smell that single peach, which was profusely low-hanging, it was the definition of low-hanging, it fell into my hands, as you did — or perhaps as I did into yours — but that was months ago. When I walked past the stands yesterday, on what should have been the first day of spring, all produce had been covered with heavy blankets to keep it warm, to mitigate harm. Today the temperature dropped so low someone thought to remove the fruit entirely and stash it away. With this strange weather we’re having, will I see you again? I can’t help myself.

I knew too that through them I knew too that he was through, I knew too that he threw them. I knew too that they were through, I knew too I knew too, I knew I knew them. I knew to them. If they tear a hunter through, if they tear through a hunter, if they tear through a hunt and a hunter, if they tear through different sizes of the six, the different sizes of the six which are these, a woman with a white package under one arm and a black package under the other arm and dressed in brown with a white blouse, the second Saint Joseph the third a hunter in a blue coat and black garters and a plaid cap, a fourth a knife grinder who is full faced and a very little woman with black hair and a yellow hat and an excellently smiling appropriate soldier. All these as you please. In the meantime examples of the same lily. In this way please have you rung. WHAT DO I SEE? A very little snail. A medium sized turkey. A small band of sheep. A fair orange tree. All nice wives are like that. Listen to them from here. Oh. You did not have an answer. Here. Yes. A VERY VALENTINE. Very fine is my valentine. Very fine and very mine. Very mine is my valentine very mine and very fine. Very fine is my valentine and mine, very fine very mine and mine is my valentine. WHY DO YOU FEEL DIFFERENTLY. Why do you feel differently about a very little snail and a big one. Why do you feel differently about a medium sized turkey and a very large one. Why do you feel differently about a small band of sheep and several sheep that are riding. Why do you feel differently about a fair orange tree and one that has blossoms as well. Oh very well. All nice wives are like that. To Be No Please. To Be They can please Not to be Do they please. Not to be Do they not please Yes please. Do they please No please. Do they not please No please. Do they please. Please. If you please. And if you please. And if they please And they please. To be pleased Not to be pleased. Not to be displeased. To be pleased and to please. KNEELING One two three four five six seven eight nine and ten. The tenth is a little one kneeling and giving away a rooster with this feeling. I have mentioned one, four five seven eight and nine. Two is also giving away an animal. Three is changed as to disposition. Six is in question if we mean mother and daughter, black and black caught her, and she offers to be three she offers it to me. That is very right and should come out below and just so. BUNDLES FOR THEM. A HISTORY OF GIVING BUNDLES. We are able to notice that each one in a way carried a bundle, they were not a trouble to them nor were they all bundles as some of them were chickens some of them pheasants some of them sheep and some of them bundles, they were not a trouble to them and then indeed we learned that it was the principal recreation and they were so arranged that they were not given away, and to-day they were given away. I will not look at them again. They will not look for them again. They have not seen them here again. They are in there and we hear them again. In which way are stars brighter than they are. When we have come to this decision. We mention many thousands of buds. And when I close my eyes I see them. If you hear her snore It is not before you love her You love her so that to be her beau is very lovely She is sweetly there and her curly hair is very lovely She is sweetly here and I am very near and that is very lovely. She is my tender sweet and her little feet are stretched out well which is a treat and very lovely Her little tender nose is between her little eyes which close and are very lovely. She is very lovely and mine which is very lovely. ON HER WAY. If you can see why she feel that she kneels if you can see why he knows that he shows what he bestows, if you can see why they share what they share, need we question that there is no doubt that by this time if they had intended to come they would have sent some notice of such intention. She and they and indeed the decision itself is not early dissatisfaction. IN THIS WAY. Keys please, it is useless to alarm any one it is useless to alarm some one it is useless to be alarming and to get fertility in gardens in salads in heliotrope and in dishes. Dishes and wishes are mentioned and dishes and wishes are not capable of darkness. We like sheep. And so does he. LET US DESCRIBE. Let us describe how they went. It was a very windy night and the road although in excellent condition and extremely well graded has many turnings and although the curves are not sharp the rise is considerable. It was a very windy night and some of the larger vehicles found it more prudent not to venture. In consequence some of those who had planned to go were unable to do so. Many others did go and there was a sacrifice, of what shall we, a sheep, a hen, a cock, a village, a ruin, and all that and then that having been blessed let us bless it.

It’s good you came—she says. You heard a plane crashed on Thursday? Well so they came to see me about it. The story is he was on the passenger list. So what, he might have changed his mind. They gave me some pills so I wouldn’t fall apart. Then they showed me I don’t know who. All black, burned except one hand. A scrap of shirt, a watch, a wedding ring. I got furious, that can’t be him. He wouldn’t do that to me, look like that. The stores are bursting with those shirts. The watch is just a regular old watch. And our names on that ring, they’re only the most ordinary names. It’s good you came. Sit here beside me. He really was supposed to get back Thursday. But we’ve got so many Thursdays left this year. I’ll put the kettle on for tea. I’ll wash my hair, then what, try to wake up from all this. It’s good you came, since it was cold there, and him just in some rubber sleeping bag, him, I mean, you know, that unlucky man. I’ll put the Thursday on, wash the tea, since our names are completely ordinary—