Mahlzeit

I should have fought in wars,
I said, and sighed, I should
have taken up arms, been
proud and brave. I should
have fought and died
in wars.

That's bullshit,
she said, painting
letters in red wine with
her finger on the top of
the table. You're bullshit,
she said, looking up at
me, and I had to
concede the point.

Post Meridian

you know, I think that
I was always waiting to
stumble or be pushed—
but that is not how one
falls in love, or not in America

remember the lantern? on the
tortoise, I mean (I know you
read it, same as me), and it
went over the face of the waters
which were there before everything
              I think about that sometimes,
              wondering what words might
              mean to you when they are
              the same words to me

and did you ever read anything
that I wrote and wonder
whether it was meant for you?
somehow I don't think so,
though I was always afraid
you had, and would know
me, through and through

but the truth is that I
never work at anything
with care so you could
see where I came away with
hurts, or where my hands
might leave a mark
              I was never made for recollection,
              dear Socrates, and you will not
              find your truth in me

A Little Night Music

Malach-YHWH, when
he comes, must dress himself
in earth—again, must
speak in words the dust
can hear. But this is
no hardship: God is
not a stranger to the earth.

The presence is like and
not like fire, and the
prophetic word comes not
in but after the convulsion.
So hope abides even after
the wreck we make:
our little lifelong disaster.

Febrile

the obscene in verse:

            I am the ephemera of

            the mind dissolving, the

            broken lease of the body,

            fever sweat, the little

            indignities of indigestion

           

                        the logic of word and

                        deed will die with you,

                        I have none—if there

                        were time, but there is

                        no time—knuckles swell—

                                    putrid and prurient

                                    dizzy from the fall

                                    of man, gorged and

                                    gagging, bound and sold

                                    under teenaged irony

                                                the obscene in verse

Jagers

Rub raw the soul

            with the inward eye,

                        for the peace of contrition

                                    is the province of the cruel.

Closeness to the earth

            is to be valued more highly

                        than the meditatio, more highly

than the noche oscuro, and

            the gift of vision.

Do you know the feel

            of sweat in the winter,

                        or the shallow breaths?

                                    Weary the shoulders

                        and sore the foot—

            there is a peace in failure.

                       

Honors due to Bruegel,

            the master, who put oil

on wood and fire in the eye.

run, river, run

we the dead assembled

in aspect and likeness

would speak our words
run, river, run

i was a mother

a mother and

i pressed my babies

into the soil

i never meant to

i never meant to

but here we are

across the jordan

what presence can i have had

flitting through the lives

of hale and healthy ones

you do not know me

you can’t have done

you can’t you can’t

the tailor came around

and said his piece

but we had none of it

we put him right out the door

some people are beyond helping

kindness leads to shiftlessness

that’s what my pappy always said

those fine lads going off to war

a blaze of brass and glory

i was there and i was watching

my heart so full of pride

full of piss and vinegar

they never did come back

those boys

but they did our village proud

they killed lots and lots of krauts

their bodies came back in boxes

with medals on their coats

i remember one day

i saw mister paul and miss lyle

leaning in a corner

they looked so grown up

and the light played on their faces

and i swear i never did see a sight so fine

and he closed the door and looked out across

the hall and his eyes fell on me

and i longed to know

what stood behind those walls

and i never did learn

in all my life

what stood behind those walls

one day she was standing

there right ahead of me

& she leaned in to smooth my hair

& i could feel the breath of her mouth

on my forehead

& i didn’t kiss her on

her pale lips though i wished to

why didn’t i do it

why didn’t i just

kiss her… ? on the lips

& it’s always too late now

too late too late

for kisses

i miss everyone

all the time

i just wanted you

to know that

i just want you to know that

the next time could always be the last time

to hear and to hold

to touch hands

to drink wine together

on this side of the river

that runs forever

In Stature and Favor

We lie to children, when they are young,

for fear that they will be satisfied

We lie to our children because we

have not been satisfied

And we say:
It is in the nature of things to break

But I tell you that nature is not nature

Nature is not nature, no

Nature is not

And we say:

It is not the wanting

but the object

and the wanting is pure

and the object is false

But I say to you

that God is in the bird-shit

and God is in the river

The one who wants is false

and therefore also the wanting

And there is joy in the wreck

and there is fear in the ribbon

and the fear is broken on account

of the break in the man

And we say:

It is well for the young to be quick

and for the young men to quarrel

and die

But I tell you that youth

is the time to be weary, youth

and the end of youth

And if God gives the mercy,

perhaps we will sleep

And if God gives the duty,

perhaps we will wake

And I am writing to you,

young men, because you

have been wearied

and seen the new city

And I am writing to you,

young ladies, because

you have been worried

at the smell of decay

We lie to the old

because we are afraid

that they will not want to die

And old men are dreamers

and they will not be deceived

They will not be unaware

of the stranger

When the divided fire falls on your head,

you will speak and know

and the violence of things will be clear