Love is not worth so much;
I regret everything.
Now on our backs
in Fayetteville, Arkansas,
the stars are falling
into our cracked eyes.
With my good arm
I reach for the sky,
and let the air out of the moon.
It goes whizzing off
to shrivel and sink
in the ocean.
You cannot weep;
I cannot do anything
that once held an ounce
of meaning for us.
I cover you
with pine needles.
When morning comes,
I will build a cathedral
around our bodies.
And the crickets,
who sing with their knees,
will come there
in the night to be sad,
when they can sing no more.
The Tryst
In the early evening rain
I leave the vault
and walk into the city
of lamentations, and stand.
I think it is September, September.
Where are you, Josephine?
It is one minute until you must appear,
draped in a grass-green serape,
shorter than most people,
more beautiful, baleful …
pressing a hand to my forehead,
slipping into my famished pocket
the elixir, the silver needle.
Pity Ascending with the Fog
He had no past and he certainly
had no future. All the important
events were ending shortly before
they began. He says he told mama
earth what he would not accept: and I
keep thinking it had something to do
with her world. Nights expanding into
enormous parachutes of fire, his
eyes were little more than mercury.
Or sky-diving in the rain when there
was obviously no land beneath,
half-dead fish surfacing all over
his body. He knew all this too well.
And she who might at any time be
saying the word that would embrace all
he had let go, he let go of course.
I think the pain for him will end in
May or January, though the weather
is far too clear for me to think of
anything but august comedy.
Pride’s Crossing
Where the railroad meets the sea,
I recognize her hand.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
her hair is as intricate as a thumbprint.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
her name is the threshold of sleep.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
it takes all night to get there.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
you have stepped over the barrier.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
you will understand afterwards.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
where the railroad meets the sea—
I know only that our paths lie together,
and you cannot endure if you remain alone.
The Indian Undertaker
There is a man carrying an armload of lilacs
across the field: he may be a lost Indian
as he is whistling, very beautifully, a tune
to the birds I have never heard. I am in back
of him, following at a distance. Three small quail,
perhaps hypnotized, rise and circle his head.
I want to stop the man and ask him what he said
to make them feel so safe, but I feel
weak and dizzy. His whistling begins to chill
my neck, as if the wind from his lips were
rushing round me. If only I were agile
like this family of field mice heading for
the river; still, I am not sorry I came here.
A lilac is falling like a piece of sky
from his arms; it seems to take ten minutes or more.
Finally it kisses the wet earth. I
start running—the lilac is waiting for me.
Here you are! I feel the first emotions of love.
And, look, a snail is holding on to your leaf
for all he’s worth. So slowly he moves,
humming a psalm to the god of snails.
The lilac swoons. The ground is sapphire
and the trees are topaz. I feel as if I were
attending my own funeral, the air a jail
of music and cool yellow fire.
The Initiation
The long wake continues,
quiet and moronic expressions.
The jowl of the dead
is agape with infinite abandon
as if he were about to sing:
if we concentrate
he may remember the words.
In comes a man with a dog
on a chain; then several others.
The room is bathed
in plaster of paris.
In the background
a deep, abundant fugue has begun.
The piece is dedicated
to me. How strange,
I thought I was new here.
They stop playing,
file quickly into another room.
As I begin to leave
shafts of darkness reach out
and close the little door.