two people made out of light

—one a blameless son,

the other like a Vermeer girl,

on their way back down with the old man.

Still, all the history of the world

happens at once: In the rain, a young man

holds out a blue cloth

to caress her head

at the landing-pier

of the new bride.

You can’t get beauty. (Still,

in its longing it flies to you.)

Traveler

A matchbox painted and figured

with five gardeners

and thirty-seven flowers, red and blue,

a pretty garden.

One little fellow stands off.

Anybody can see

love is all around him,

like the blue air. Most

dear in the Double Realm

of music, he is a Traveler.

He stands off, alone.

When somebody dies, as is the custom,

he burns the place down.

Coyote

Walking last night in the drought-country dark

she heard wolves howl. No,

coyotes.

Sexual love

coyotes crying

breathing close

This morning it was on the radio

it’s turning a little cooler, she is turning

She has given her purse of money

away, it’s time

to turn back into Coyote

My, my Coyote in the doorway

Hawkins Stable

It was years before you could climb

back up over the fallen stalls, and knock at

the family’s old door

—they were gone,

you could just look in from the road.

Field after field.

Your eyes looked two ways at once.

Under the fields,

the dense tongue of the cow —

and the horses’ eyes —

and the water from the hand-pump in the sink,

racing like horses.

II

II

Who watches

for Dr. Paul Farmer

Who watches

on a moon-surface hillside

the soon-dead children’s rubber ball

circle in an oval

sunstruck orbit,

from hand to hand…

Cange,

Haiti,

Earth

Time is matter here

Time is matter here

The freight train

I saw in the morning

still in the evening

inching across the flatlands

word after slow word

too many to count

And you are matter—

your eyes, your long legs,

slow breath sometimes catching

in your sleep, your head

resting against the bus window,

tired horse,

tired rider

Earth and the Librarian

At the library

she passed a tray with little

books of baked earth on it—

—Take one,

and eat it;

It is sweet,

and it is given for you.

— Who lives in me?

said Earth —

Her car

Her car had hit another car.

The other driver’s insurance person called.

It was all going well,

a matter of time.

She lost her tongue. It was her taste

for life, for herself, for others.

She found her tongue on the floor

and paper-clipped it to

the kitchen calendar. This was back in the day

of Separation. Permanence.

The World inside This One

There is another world

but it is inside this one

ÉLUARD

Steamer trunks

standing on end

standing open

like big books

The world inside of that one

mass graves

like in this one

Inside of that world

someone painting

animal-souls

Inside the dark