lost is just one’s fancy—

some cloth, some paste—

the essence of flimsy.

Therefore we

double don’t know

why we don’t take off

the Crusoe rags, step

off the island, bow

from the waist, accept

your kudos.

THE OTHER SHOE

Oh if it were

only the other

shoe hanging

in space before

joining its mate.

If the undropped

didn’t congregate

with the undropped.

But nothing can

stop the midair

collusion of the

unpaired above us

acquiring density

and weight. We

feel it accumulate.

ATLAS

Extreme exertion

isolates a person

from help,

discovered Atlas.

Once a certain

shoulder-to-burden

ratio collapses,

there is so little

others can do:

they can’t

lend a hand

with Brazil

and not stand

on Peru.

HE LIT A FIRE WITH ICICLES

For W. G. Sebald, 1944–2001

This was the work

of St. Sebolt, one

of his miracles:

he lit a fire with

icicles. He struck

them like a steel

to flint, did St.

Sebolt. It

makes sense

only at a certain

body heat. How

cold he had

to get to learn

that ice would

burn. How cold

he had to stay.

When he could

feel his feet

he had to

back away.

RATS’ TAILS

For Joseph Brodsky, 1940–1996

All that’s left of him is rats’ tails.
There’s a fate I could envy.

—Joseph Brodsky

Let’s say

some day

all that’s

left of him

is rats’ tails,

just scattered

bits of script:

a loose e,

an s or two,

a g, an almost-

n. If he had

hands he’d

rub them as

the test begins:

to see how little

will suggest

the rat again.

ADDED SIGNIFICANCE

In the wake of

horrible events

each act or word

is fortified with

added significance,

unabsorbable as

nutrients added

to the outside

of food: it can’t

do any good.

As if significance

weren’t burdensome

enough. Now

the wave-slapped

beach rocks not

just made to talk

but made to teach.

CHOP

The bird

walks down

the beach along

the glazed edge

the last wave

reached. His

each step makes

a perfect stamp—

smallish, but as

sharp as an

emperor’s chop.

Stride, stride,

goes the emperor

down his wide

mirrored promenade

the sea bows

to repolish.

DESERT RESERVOIRS

They are beachless

basins, steep-edged

catches, unnatural

bodies of water wedged

into canyons, stranded

anti-mirages

unable to vanish

or moisten a landscape

of cactus adapted

to thrift, a wasteland

to creatures who chew

one another or grasses

for moisture. Nothing

here matches their gift.

HAILSTORM

Like a storm

of hornets, the

little white planets

layer and relayer

as they whip around

in their high orbits,

getting more and

more dense before

they crash against

our crust. A maelstrom

of ferocious little

fists and punches,

so hard to believe

once it’s past.

EXPECTATIONS

We expect rain

to animate this

creek: these rocks

to harbor gurgles,

these pebbles to

creep downstream

a little, those leaves

to circle in the

eddy, the stains

and gloss of wet.