Les Droits de l'Homme

Yesterday I stood in the parking lot

and breathed and wished

the air were colder, just a little colder,

and let the coat

fall loose around my shoulders.

In younger days, it seems

to me, I did not hurt

because I did not care.

Gliding in slow rounds,

a dance in unending light,

a reel in frost and fairy-light.

O Absalom, Absalom, my son!

I saw you hanging on that tree—

I remember, once,

you ran your fingers through

my hair and I

said nothing to you.

The man alone wants only

to say something that

means something other

than that he is alone.

All we want is a place to be,

a broad and open land.

All we want is to be

received, a little gesture of welcome

in earliest morning.

Come, put the whiskey

on the table, let

me feel that I

am wanted in this place.

We set our eyes toward

a better country

that we cannot see

where there will be time

again for talking

and where the course of time

will bruise no longer.

Pastorale

Under oak and terebinth

with the ox and bullock lowing,

with grain and grapevine growing,

I am well-pleased with

all the chthonic powers, in

August, when we

bear the burden;

November, when

we lay it down;

December, when we

brood and button;

March, when we

stir and think;

and May, when we

prepare the August burden.

By the wadi

on the dust

in the shade

of gliding wings

where the ragged

mouthpiece sleeps.

Desideratum

I want so dearly to be a maker,

but what am I but a thief of words?
The knotted fingers and the

callused palms are the waysign

and the secret marks—the bearer

smiles, inclines the head.

Your splendid, shining bones,

and the way your eyes would

switch and gleam…

The going under of the other—

The condescension of the Son.

The tip of my tongue at

the edge of my teeth:

I want so dearly to be a maker.

Moving Pictures

The widow walked up the hills
and the sun went with her:
black veil in golden light, which
is all the American beatitude.

Good morning, sir, God give
you peace by a broken jaw.

A slow walk to a distant car,
and the morning is
bright like winter—pressed
fingers on wheel leather,
and this is the day you
forget your music.
Humming is not like hearing,
and you are by no means a singer.

While I Prophesy

Tracing the worried orbit
around the flaw in your dark eye,
silver crack in earthy iris

above and below it
beside it beside it

I
try

charms and potencies
and deft flicking fingers

and all the while
you stand by

you have no need
for me to rectify
what is, after all,

only a spot of light
in your
twice-lucid eye

The Twist

We find the conscience by

electric light, with

windows open to the winter.

In the crack of knuckles

you might have heard—

God, who jackknifes sideways

in the belly.

Sh’ma, Yisrael:

There is the sound

of scratching pens,

of rolling wheels,

of fellow-travelers in the night.

Though many worlds seem formed in fear,

all things were made for praising.

And time is not vicious,

O my saint of the pear trees,

not vicious but violent,

like a dark-haired lady.

Time bears away all

the objects and marks of love

with blood in her teeth,

bearing her gods in her womb.

Margate-On-Schuylkill

I was born in this place,

Tin-can son of wooden father.

Pieced from bog and hill,

Stone and sea—

Drawn from dim wood

And the rivers under sun.

I was born in this place

And have been away

For so long that

I spent this road amazed

By fields of corn.

This was the soil

My feet first learned,

And I still believe

That space can be

A balm for mind,

That strain dissolves

In open air

On the hills of Pennsylvania.