I am as far as the deepest sky between clouds
and you are as far as the deepest root and wound,
and I am as far as a train at evening,
as far as a whistle you can’t hear or remember.
You are as far as an unimagined animal
who, frightened by everything, never appears.
I am as far as cicadas and locusts
and you are as far as the cleanest arrow
that has sewn the wind to the light on
the birch trees. I am as far as the sleep of rivers
that stains the deepest sky between clouds,
you are as far as invention, and I am as far as memory.
You are as far as a red-marbled stream
where children cut their feet on the stones
and cry out. And I am as far as their happy
mothers, bleaching new linen on the grass
and singing, “You are as far as another life,
as far as another life are you.”
And I am as far as an infinite alphabet
made from yellow stars and ice,
and you are as far as the nails of the dead man,
as far as a sailor can see at midnight
when he’s drunk and the moon is an empty cup,
and I am as far as invention and you are as far as memory.
I am as far as the corners of a room where no one
has ever spoken, as far as the four lost corners
of the earth. And you are as far as the voices
of the dumb, as the broken limbs of saints
and soldiers, as the scarlet wing of the suicidal
blackbird, I am farther and farther away from you.
And you are as far as a horse without a rider
can run in six years, two months and five days.
I am as far as that rider, who rubs his eyes with
his blistered hands, who watches a ghost don his
jacket and boots and now stands naked in the road.
As far as the space between word and word,
as the heavy sleep of the perfectly loved
and the sirens of wars no one living can remember,
as far as this room, where no words have been spoken,
you are as far as invention, and I am as far as memory.
Wish You Were Here
from Yellow Stars and Ice, Princeton Univerwsity Press, 1981
Where the city falls
into the river's arms and the cars
are torn apart by the light,
here where the straw and the cats
disappear. How it happens
is a mystery to me.
The blue herons seem at home
by the fountain. Each day I
bring them a pocket's worth of almonds.
The river seems to rise a little
every morning, but so far
nothing has been broken.
Yesterday I saw a school
on the farthest island, but it was only
a chain being thrown against
a flagpole. By noon today the chain
had turned into a moth
and the flagpole was a small brass
lamp on my bureau.
Even that won't go out.
I had to paint all the windows
black, it's the only way
to get any rest. Here all the doors
have secret names
and the castles on the beach
are, I'm sure, true castles.
I met a woman
who makes her living waking
sleepwalkers. She said,
"In all the world they are the most
ungrateful. It's better to work for the dead."
A white speck in her left eye
seemed to grow larger. I know you think
I imagine these things, but the fear
I sometimes feel is still fear.
The shadows of the clouds,
spilled on the mountains, are as solemn
as the pacing of monks
in a garden. You must know
how unnerving this is. Lightning
comes and goes, estranged from its thunder.
I haven't prayed for anything in months,
not rain or affection or a fence
out of my childhood, or the tourists who fall
off the mountain every week
Yet I have wished for you so often,
you are almost here and in the halflight
the shadows are bearing you in.
They are hatless and it's raining
You are singing on their shoulders
and I have slipped this postcard
upside down in any book.
TOP The Forest
from The Forest, University of Chicago Press, 1995
You should lie down now and remember the forest,
for it is disappearing--
no, the truth is it is gone now
and so what details you can bring back
might have a kind of life.
Not the one you had hoped for, but a life
--you should lie down now and remember the forest--
nonetheless, you might call it "in the forest,"
no the truth is, it is gone now,
starting somewhere near the beginning, that edge,
Or instead the first layer, the place you remember
(not the one you had hoped for, but a life)
as if it were firm, underfoot, for that place is a sea,
nonetheless, you might call it "in the forest,"
which we can never drift above, we were there or we were not,
No surface, skimming. And blank in life, too,
or instead the first layer, the place you remember,
as layers fold in time, black humus there,
as if it were firm, underfoot, for that place is a sea,
like a light left hand descending, always on the same keys.
The flecked birds of the forest sing behind and before
no surface, skimming. And blank in life, too,
sing without a music where there cannot be an order,
as layers fold in time, black humus there,
where wide swatches of light slice between gray trunks,
Where the air has a texture of drying moss,
the flecked birds of the forest sing behind and before:
a musk from the mushrooms and scalloped molds.
They sing without a music where there cannot be an order,
though high in the dry leaves something does fall,
Nothing comes down to us here.
Where the air has a texture of drying moss,
(in that place where I was raised) the forest was tangled,
a musk from the mushrooms and scalloped molds,
tangled with brambles, soft-starred and moving, ferns
And the marred twines of cinquefoil, false strawberry, sumac--
nothing comes down to us here,
stained. A low branch swinging above a brook
in that place where I was raised, the forest was tangled,
and a cave just the width of shoulder blades.
You can understand what I am doing when I think of the entry--
and the marred twines of cinquefoil, false strawberry, sumac--
as a kind of limit. Sometimes I imagine us walking there
(. . .pokeberry, stained. A low branch swinging above a brook)
in a place that is something like a forest.
But perhaps the other kind, where the ground is covered
(you can understand what I am doing when I think of the entry)
by pliant green needles, there below the piney fronds,
a kind of limit. Sometimes I imagine us walking there.
And quickening below lie the sharp brown blades,
The disfiguring blackness, then the bulbed phosphorescence of the roots.
But perhaps the other kind, where the ground is covered,
so strangely alike and yet singular, too, below
the pliant green needles, the piney fronds.
Once we were lost in the forest, so strangely alike and yet singular, too,
but the truth is, it is, lost to us now.
Untitled
from The Forest, University of Chicago Press, 1995
We needed fire to make
the tongs and tongs to hold
us from the flame; we needed
ash to clean the cloth
and cloth to clean the ash's
stain; we needed stars
to find our way, to make
the light that blurred the stars;
we needed death to mark
an end, an end that time
in time could mend.
Born in love, the consequence-
born of love, the need.
Tell me, ravaged singer,
how the cinder bears the seed.
Lost Rules of Usage
from the forthcoming book, Columbarium, University of Chicago Press, autumn, 2003.
period
a tollboothbbbbbbbbb
a jammed F sharp
footprints leading onto rock
question
a noble brow above the missing lips
comma
red willow leaf
bbbbbbbbbbbb
suspended in the water
an eyelash gone astray on a cheek
colon
adhesive tape mending
bbbbbbbbbbbb
the bridge of your sunglasses
semi-colon
a knot and a stain in the plywood
some people can't make up their minds
dash
might as well die trying
exclamation
the slim clown leaping over the ball
a strained expectation leading onto nothing
quotation
one week we slept like spoons in a drawer
bbbbbbbbbbbb
the next week, the same, but in the other direction
parentheses
the condemned man dreams of his pardon
what I think of when I do not think of you
To You and For You
from the forthcoming book, Columbarium, University of Chicago Press, autumn, 2003.
When you say you are afraid there is something else there, some figure
bbbbbbbbbbb
by the window, or someone
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
coming nearer, a voice in another
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
room that isn't
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb quite a voice, somehow the difference
between things and persons and the difference between persons and things,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbso given and irreducible,
becomes like the clouding of
the past
bbbbbbbbbbbband the present at
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbthe moment when you want to turn
bbbbbbbbbbbbbtoward the future
and find yourself leaden
bbbbbbbbbbbbwith hesitation.
The film you saw, where the boy lives in the midst
bbbbbbbbbbbof an after-life,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbband thinks it is this world, and cannot see
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbball the forces that have gathered
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbagainst him, is now in your memory and the memory of others -
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbband nowhere else.
He was a boy who never lived, but you are alive
and your desire to live can overwhelm
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbwhatever compels you to forget.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbYou can risk some harm, run up close
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
to the brink,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
and still you won't know what it is you want to know.
We cannot look at the sun, and so we look at pictures.
I have seen the soul go out,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb like a breath,
and fill the room
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb before it leaves.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb And that was the end of it; there was no second end.
You ask if they have some intent toward us.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb Do they think of us as we think of them? Is it fury
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb that drives them,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb or conscience, or regret?
bbbbbbbbbbb I cannot give you a good explanation, I cannot explain
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb what good is;
my hope is you will feel it
as a kind of ease.
I've known those who are busy with love, very busy,
and ever vigilant,
those who never take their eyes away, never fall
bbbbbbbbbbb aslant.
And they, too, are alive,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb but they have devoted themselves to fear.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb And their fear,
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb a second end, is like
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb a form of death.
You understand these are questions you are asking of yourself.
There is no outside
bbbbbbbbbbbb setting them against you.
Your mind made these thoughts
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb and your mind
will hold you from them.
