163

The water held within
My hands,
Until my hands made
Wings and
It fell but held itself
Until it hit
The earth and it broke
And then the
Air held, in the span
Of my cold
And empty white hands.

It had flown
For a space, where light
Held it in the
Coincidence of its song.

162

He stared long
Into the sky as it
Caged the earth,
Where the light flew
Into the dark.
He spoke in the hush.
Nothing was
Contained within its
Arc without station.

A god had leapt into it
And crashed in flames.

The far stars turned
As on an axletree.

161

He stared long
Into the grate as it
Caged the fire,
As the air drew it to
Its heart, so
To feed upon itself.
Nothing was
Contained within its
Form but light.

The flower
Leapt from its armour—

Light rose
In the ghost of its arms.

160

John came downstairs heavily
            As it was growing light and
                        Shut behind him the screen door
And went shivering out into
            The yard where nothing had yet
                        Moved and crossed barefoot
To the passage between the barn
            And the outer wall of the
                        House and with his arms shaking
And his gut coiled crossed
            To the outhouse, and closed
                        The half-hinged door behind him.
He unbuckled his belt with
            Slow cold hands and sat and
                        Recoiled at the seat on his
Skin and then he breathed
            In and then he commenced
                        To shit, and he breathed out.
He could hear doves calling
            Through the woods and the
                        Moan of low wind and the trees.
His bowels growled.
            When he went back up to
                        The house he would break into
A pan five eggs and grill
            Some toast and drink a cold
                        Glass of milk and swill it all
In his mouth grease and grit
            And curds and then wash his
                        Face outside in the frozen cistern.

159

Eliot sat in the space
            Of the part open barn doors
                        Where a corridor of light fell
Onto the dirt floor
            And back into the implements
                        And parts of combines that
Lay in dust and lightstarved
            Weeds. He was watching as
                        Swallows traced parallel paths
Through the width of air
            Over the gable end of the barn
                        And to the mass of the trees
Growing into the yard.
            They had a nest in the hollow
                        Of the roof and he watched
As they darted through the
            Outer air to scream into the
                        Dark above him where their
Young made noises like the
            Friction of minute axles.
                        He got up and walked in
The heavy air to the edge
            Of the trees. They were swarming
                        With particles of dust and the
Bright forms of mosquitos.
            After some minutes he went
                        Back inside the house and to
The dark of the kitchen and
            The tile was cold and cold
                        Blue light swam before his eyes.

158

I rode my bicycle through
            The back fields slowly
                        And smoked a cigarette
And watched the small birds
            Gather and lift as I
                        Ran them up from their
Ground under the stems
            Of wheat. They would start
                        Up at intervals and fall
Back into it further from me
            Like a tide was moving them.
                        Cinders fell from my smoke
Into the dark regimented
            Crop and sailed down
                        As their fuel ended and the
Air sucked them out of it.
            The cigarette was good.
                        It was an old bicycle
That had belonged to Eliot.
            The chain would catch
                        And the brakes were worn
And there was some rust,
            But it was a good bicycle.
                        I felt a little dizzy and
Stars were showing as it
            Came down and the sparks
                        Fell into the ranked wheat.
I could not tell my speed
            Or direction of if I was in motion
                        Because the stars were still.

157

We were following the track
            Through the woods behind
                        The wheatfields. I could
See the whiteness of her
            Dress in the blue dark
                        Dance like a candle as she
Skipped from the path to
            The trees and back and
                        Ran on ahead down it.
We were going up a
            Shallow incline, she kept on
                        Calling back to me my name,
And the wind would rise
            Over her voice and the trees
                        Rush down into it.
We were always to be back
            By dark, and it was
                        Already dark, and it was a
Long way back down
            Through the woods and
                        Across the fields and she
Was going too far ahead so
            I called for her to wait
                        But it was against the wind
And I don't know that
            She heard me. So I ran
                        Through the billowing trees
And when I reached her she
            Seemed to be half asleep.
                        White, under a dark beech.

156

There were white flowers
            Swaying outside the kitchen
                        Window in the cold air
When I came down
            From my bed. It had
                        Rained through the night but
Nothing was audible now
            But the grass sighing as it
                        Layed down in the wind.
The silent flowers before
            The empty grey sink were
                        Like a motion picture.
I came to the sink to
            Wash my face and then
                        I looked over my hands
And several cuts on the
            Knuckles, and I cracked them.
                        My father was asleep in his
Chair and the lamp at his
            Side was weak in the
                        Daylight where it fell on
His hands upturned in
            The pages of the newspaper.
                        There was a dried trail
Of saliva that made a contour
            Down his jaw and to his
                        Collar. I shook him awake.
What time is it?
            After seven. How is wheat?
                        It's fell. Help me up.

155

The wound became infected
            And in the end Hollis
                        Had to use the pneumatic
Stungun in the barn to
            Kill it, and we strung it
                        Up from the crossbeam.
Dead, its musculature
            Hung loose from the frame
                        Of its skeleton and it was
Possible to see the chamber
            Of its ribcage and the
                        Sinews of its underbelly
Like the undercarriage
            Of a motorcar or any other
                        Kind of outer chassis.
The eyes had glassed over
            And the jaw hung loose
                        And the tongue was white.
It was not long dead and
            Still hot enough that steam
                        Rose from it in the cold air.
Hollis smirked. He took a pole
            From the wall and gouged
                        At its abdomen. It swung
And the rope creaked and
            The beam and its shadow
                        Swung faintly on the wall.
I had bile in my throat and
            I wanted to knock Hollis down,
                        And had to hold myself back.

154

It had been lamed at
            Some point during the night
                        In the foreleg and it was
Half-lying and struggling up
            From the bank of the ditch
                        Below the fence in the mud
Of the end of the pasture.
            It would stumble up and then
                        Lose purchase in the soil
And have to put weight
            On the leg and slide
                        Back down in its own track.
There was blood darkening
            On its leg and smeared
                        In the cold dew on the grass.
It was big, though still a
            Calf, and its ragged fat was
                        Shuddering as it moved.
Gouts of its breath in the
            Harsh air misted visibly
                        Like shalecoloured flowers.
I stared at it trying hard
            To think how it had
                        Happened and what to do.
In the end I ran back and
            Brought Silas and pa,
                        And we blinded it with a
Hessian sack over the head,
            Bound the leg and hauled it
                        Out, bellowing like a walrus.

153

Johnny wake up.
            Go to bed Dew, it's
                        Too late. Go to bed.
I can't get to sleep.
            Five after two. Will
                        You just please go back
To your room. If you
            Can't get to sleep just lie
                        There and count. Go on.
Is Lou really sick?
            When you are old enough
                        To have to work, I am
Going to come in your
            Room at stupid o'clock
                        And wake you up every
Night. Then you are
            Going to be the sick one.
                        Yeah but Lou, is she sick.
Yeah, she's sick.
            How bad is she?
                        I don't know. She's layed up.
Is she going to get better?
            Dewey was slightly visible
                        Because there was some light
But he couldn't see John.
            I don't know.
                        Okay. What about mama?
Well what about her.
            I don't know. Okay, night.
                        Goodnight Dew. Go sleep.

151

I was out in the yard
            And Dewey came in all
                        Dusty from the field and
He saw me but he went
            Indoors. I was cleaning
                        My workcoat on the wall.
Silas came out and he
            Spilled a pail from his
                        Doorway onto the flags.
The water weaved from
            It and guttered to the
                        Leeside wall of the shed.
It was getting dark
            And he looked up at me
                        His eyes bright and damp
From the houselight,
            His bucket slung underarm
                        Smoking a short cigarette.
I looked at him and we
            Walked over behind the
                        Shed and he handed me
One and lit it with a
            Pocketbook match and threw
                        It out in the moving grass.
I sheltered it with my
            Hands and smoked it and
                        He watched me smoke it and
Talked about his younger
            Brother tired and oldly and
                        Smoked, looking on the field.

150

I ran down out of
            The woods into the rut
                        Of the track and went
Down it to the field
            And got over the fence
                        And the cows at the end
Had their faces in the
            Earth of the stream and
                        Turned to me passing on
Dripping and I crashed
            Through the stream and
                        The bank and far fence
Cutting myself and I
            Fell in the deep grass
                        And my wounds and I
Breathed in the hot grass.
            My skin was wet and red.
                        I destroyed heads of
Dandelion and they swung
            Into the air and I sat
                        As they made the dark line
Of the wood, and some
            Were in my mouth like
                        White cotton. I breathed,
Slower. As I walked back
            The dark was coming into
                        The cold of the stream and
The lights were aching down
            Far away from the road
                        And it was still and tired.

149

I would wake late in the
            Night and hear shouting
                        Coming through the floor
And the long sound of
            Ma crying and the fall of
                        Papa's boots on the timber
Of the kitchen floor.
            The sound of his low talk
                        Was worse than the raised
Voices and I could hear
            My chest going and pain
                        In my throat and bones.
The air was thick and hot
            That summer and Lou
                        Was in the back room sick.
I knew John would be
            Awake through the wall. He
                        Would hear their voices.
I would shudder for a long
            Time and then go to sleep
                        And wake up hours later in
The damp and watch the first
            Light and the sparrows cross
                        The air between the treetops
And I would lie out of the
            Window with my head back
                        Below the ledge and the sky
Under me. A soft rain and
            My breathing and the last stars
                        And the air was in a cage.

148

I would wake up before
            Eliot or ma or pa or Silas
                        And sit and drink a glass
Of water at the table
            And wash the glass and go
                        Out in the half light
Past the sheds of half
            Woken animals where they
                        Moved in their dark hay
And through the pasture
            And the horse stood asleep
                        To the edge of the woods.
The birds used to wake so
            Early, and sing and call
                        For hours. I would go into
The trees where they were
            Moving and they sounded
                        Like a great quiet machine.
The woods seemed to fall
            And sigh to me like the sea.
                        I would come back
Where Silas was putting
            His overalls on in the
                        Grey yard and he would grin
His white teeth and pink
            Lips and dark skin and say
                        Get you inside young boy.
Standing in white dirty
            Overalls and bare feet in
                        The pale cream of light.

147

Eliot used to run away
            In the woods up the
                        Hill behind the house some
Nights and I would lie
            And listen to papa getting
                        Up and speaking to ma
And the lights come on
            In the hall and water
                        Sounding in the tin basin,
And papa and Silas would
            Go out and the door
                        Would clatter in its frame
As their lights climbed
            The hill in darting
                        And broken-up raybeams.
Their voices would be soft
            In the woods and I knew
                        That ma was still asleep.
I would wake up to
            Papa crashing around with
                        Eliot and Eliot yelling at
Him. His teary, shaking
            Childvoice. I would watch
                        Out the window Silas lock
The outside door and walk
            Across the yard to where he
                        Slept and his light vanish.
Ma would come in and
            I was not asleep but still
                        And lean in and kiss me.

146

For Eliot the shapes of
            Them all fled before him
                        And his body fled from
Him and the light was
            Dark and bright in the
                        Chipped plaster coving and
The ceiling was low like
            A shell and their faces flew
                        Away in his tremors.
For John looking at
            Eliot convulsing on the bed
                        The shape of him was all
There was as if his
            Whole had broken into
                        Only several white motions.
And the light too for
            Him was hollow like in
                        A shell with a candleflame.
But it was hallowed in
            The light of what he could
                        Not know what it was:
Death. The blue hills and
            Far off broken mountains
                        Veered in rain in the candle-
Light from the half drawn
            Drapes of bleached silk, the
                        Membrane of doily cotton.
The rucked up bedclothes
            Looked to John like wings
                        At his brother's shoulders.

145

Eliot was younger than
            Me by two years and he
                        Was a year dead before
Ma had Lou and then
            Dewey a year after that.
                        Dew was born with gold
Hair and bright as a fat
            Clean potato and our
                        Father was very glad.
Lou caught a fever about
            A year or so ago and
                        She died of it and father
Has still not come back
            From the walk he went on
                        For several hours that
Night, though he sits
            Each morning at his
                        Cereal bowl plain enough.
The milk in his beard
            Very white and his eyes
                        Empty and cornflower blue.
Lou's room is still vacant.
            I have my own room
                        And Dewey sleeps in Eliot's
Though he sometimes comes to
            Mine in the night, his head
                        Afire white and blonde in
The darkness. He is
            A frail and beautiful
                        And lonely old kid.

144

We carried Eliot to bed
            In the lap of our
                        Arms, mounted the stairs
And him a shivering
            White shape with his
                        Fat yellow teeth biting at
Nothing in the dimness
            Of the passage and his
                        Body in a white sheet
Scattered with dry oats
            He had been eating at
                        The table in papa's chair.
He had been convulsing
            For a half hour and ma
                        Had laid him down on
The plain clean tile
            And poured milk through
                        His bloody, bitten lips
Before we tried to
            Move him at all.
                        It was the evening.
He had always been
            A pale sickly kid,
                        Born late and badly.
The doctor had looked
            At him for only a
                        Minute before he spoke.
This was several years
            Before Dewey or my sister
                        Lou had been born.

143

There was music from outside
In the back office of Ahmad's
That played across the walls
And into the crashed forms
Of the sidetable and the lamp
The body had displaced and
Made a pose of their place
In the broken section of it,
Of the demolished corner of
The composed, pristine room.
The music was 50s arabesque
Jazz; choric, acid, softhowling.
It sunk into the stopped heart
Of Vincent Arthur Carra as
A fullformed code into the
Disengaged command of an
Uncoupled old machineworks.
Cables fallen slack in heaps.
Cord and chain and fuel
Neutered and flaccid, fallen
Totally from the mouth and
From the gaping exitwound
And from the dark, spreading
Stomachhole. A system only
Visible in its dysfunction.
His grey eyes moved as in the
Collapsing light of the music.

142

And he was looking
Into the farfuelled chambers
Of the outer dark,

*

Thinking of the force
And the referent, and of
Parallax, holding it

*

All a miniature
Under thought, subject to his
Will, to rotation,

*

When he thought: a man
Who sees the stars 'over him'
Is yet a function.

141

Sal placed the receiver back in
Its cradle and he went over to
The cabinet behind the desk
And removed from it a sleek,
Steel barrel tommygun with a
Moulded mahogany stock and
He held it in the crook of his
Arm and left the room. Passing
Through the hallway he could
See that the shop was empty
But that behind the counter
Ahmad was crouched and he
Reached down and hauled him
Up and propped him on the
Counteredge and held his body
There with the barrel beneath
Ahmad's lower ribs. He did not
Speak. Ahmad was spluttering—
Wha-wha-, Sal comon comon,
D-d-d—You know what I am
Gonna do Ahmad if you don't
Shut the fuck up your fucking
Body and soul are going be
Pried apart by force. Going to
To open your ribcage and feed
You your own fucking heart,
You understand? He withdrew
The barrel and as Ahmad fell
Swung the stock up to crack at
His jaw. He gave him the heel
On the floor, a few times, and
Then leaned in and cradled his
Trembling face in one sallow
Hand. I am going to fuck you,
You little mamaluke. Fuck you.
Now tell me who your friend is.
C-c-cieco. Cieco. Sal comon—
Fuckin-A. You kick up to Reuben
From now on. If I see you again,
I'm not going to see you again—
Gabisci? He straightened, spat.
Ahmad waited until his footfall
Had ceased. He began gasping.

140

There was first a seed,
Opened ground, a blanched hollow.
High in the chambers

*

Of the air, soft rain.
A wombcase of clay. Hallowed
In earth, it germinates.

*

The soul's-shape of it
Tumbled from the earth like fire,
Violet, orange.

*

Now wind saws through it,
Dessicate organ. Chassis.
Catastrophe—speak.

139

To the farthest star.
The all-envelope expands,
Proliferate. Flux.

*

Ash-pink, indigo,
Vermillion, bloodwhite, plasma
Multifoliate,

*

Tissues of the old
Softflower, germinating of
Nothing, but itself.

*

The old light—let be.
Necessity, found this slow
Bright mechanism.

138

This is my body—
Of galaxies made as ours
Is of molecules—

*

Sprawled over the dark,
A sleeping arm, nebulae
Flowering in its span.

*

And the head-case, where
Our origins lie dormant;
Empty chrysalis.

*

Fluor. This my blood—
Our substance, colour that blooms
Behind fallen eyes.

137

That which we call God
We must reckon; we must now
Transubstantiate.

*

Omnipresent: in
Matter to the farthest, and
In antimatter.

*

Omnipotent: in
The course of all particles,
Equivalent force.

*

Potent in mass, in
Energy present. So; the
Universe is God.

136

A grey light figures
The outline of two lovers.
The morning is come.

*

They sleep yet, restive,
Their breath shallow, mouths open,
Enclosed in their arms,

*

As of one substance :
The fixity of the light
Is violent, grey.

*

Over the bed stands old
Hephæstus—smokeblack, silent—
Wielding his blowtorch.

135

I carried the cottontail out
To the back field and layed
Him down in the collapsed
Hollow under where the bank
Had all fallen away and I
Covered him with leaves.
His body was wet and not
Light, and I had to hold
The neck. I could hear the
Others calling me back but
I didn't care. And now he
Can rest and not get his
Guts all pulled out on a
String by a hawk or have
His eyes stabbed in. Poppa
Used to say beautiful things
Die. He used to say there
But for the grace of God
Go I, when we would see the
Processions, for funerals.
But he went there, grace or
No. And when I was a kid
Lou would call me Rabbit.

134

Sal waited, as minutes elapsed.
Then the door moved inward to
Admit a gigantic man dressed
In a shapeless mustard suit.
His complexion was olive and
He was bright with perspiration.
Seeing Sal, his eyes whitened
And his face engorged and it
Became sallow. He backed into
The wall making wordless, empty
Guttural sounds. Sal discharged
The pistol over his forearm and
And the shot pinned the giant
To the wall. He slid down it,
Leaving a long crescent trail
Of blood, and fell to the floor.
His expression was rapt for a
Moment, and then became static.
His jowls ceased to shake, and
His eyes grew pale, and parted.

Sal breathed, holding the gun.
He came nearer and overturned
The body. The exit wound was a
Rosette of flesh in the endless
Expanse of the man's torso. Red
Seeped from the well of broken
Fabric. Sal stood back from him
And took aim and put a second
Round where the spine and head
Were conjoined. The body jolted.
Sal stood looking at it in the
Dark of the office and reached
In his coat for a cigarette and
Lit it and went to the desk and
Picked up the telephone to dial.

133

He left the light on
All night. It was absolute,
Until the curtains paled.

*

The child's hair was like
A dormant fire. His chest rose
In sleep, sparrowlike.

*

Did colour precede
Shape, or shape colour? We are,
As we are, our own.

*

The love he bore crept
Like a pale, new light. He got
Up, quiet. The child stirred.

132

Magellanic cloud,
Rears like a pale horse from the
Dolphinfish's gut.

*

Stars fall in the dark,
Sparks from the Promethean
Forge. They are fading.

*

In a berth of dark,
Om sits, buck-toothed, golden, holy
All, singularity.

*

He sweats, he is still.
The eagle arcs above. All man:
Prometheus bound.

131

In eddies upon
The water of night's bodies
Galaxies pinwheel.

*

Of the dark's slow fish
The most corniced and massive
Is Andromeda.

*

In eons to come
We will meet Andromeda:
An embrace in fire.

*

The deepest darkness
Lies at the bright epicenter
Where stars have grown old.

130

Pale birches waver above the
Water, their branches white,
Ribbonlike, gathered heads of
Growth, caulked, somnolent.
Foxbrush pines rise over
The hill, silent and brown,
Their bodies packed beneath
Them in serried rows like
Filaments of baleen. Fires
Have scarred whole sections
And these lie white, bald,
Lapses in the continuity.
There is an atmosphere of
High light about the place.
The pines seem to have been
Interrupted in the process
Of breaking weightlessly and
Lifting from the terrestrial.
Standing water pools beneath
The birches. In it is shown
A sudden, fallen world, one
As bright; inverse, trees
White roots in herringbone,
And later stars manifesting
Their glow of spawn, husk—
All conjoined, in archeol.

129

We used to go to carnival
On the edge of town some
Nights in the summer. One
Year they had a ferris wheel
And we would walk under it
And stare up at the lights
Arcing away and then back,
And feel like falling into
Space and John would grab
Us and we'd all wrestle
In the scrub. Were always
Clowns there, some of them
Butch old muscley ones I
Liked and others like limpy
Ghosts, all staring and you
Would cling on John's arm.
We'd win prizes at stalls,
One year a pineapple that
John cut with his penknife
And we ate in the darkness
Under the old willows by
Where the carnies slept in
The daytime. It was sweet,
Yellow. As if we had run away.
No use to say, but I sure
Do wish you were still here.

128

Sal stepped out of the bar
Into the din of the street.
It was noon, earlier there
Had been rain and it was
Rammed with slick taxis and
Slow blue hulks of articulated
Trucks. An immanent thrum.
He weaved through standing
Traffic in his greatcoat and
Corduroy slouch hat raising a
Hand if the cars came on.
At the far curb wreathed in
Vent steam the cornerstore was
An island of light, neons and
Striplights, betslips, tropical
Fruit, malt bottles, medicine.
Ahmad's. He went in and made
For the rear where there was a
Grey, unmarked door which he
Tested lightly and then pushed.
He moved silently down a dim
Hallway and through the portal
Of an empty office and sat down
In the vacant chair. He stared
At the gap in the doorway and he
Rested on the edge of the desk
The thin barrel of his Sig-Sauer.

126

Isabella is on the bed and he
Is watching her, looking down.
What you want for me to do,
She says. There is a double of
The electric light suspended
In the dark undrawn window.
There is a double of Pierrot
In the glass, still in his coat,
Still bleary and cold from the
Street. He gestures uncertainly
As if about to speak. She says,
Is no more money, no extra.
She touches his arm. He says
Slowly Pretend like you love me.
Please. She looks at him, mute,
And they begin to remove each
Other's clothes. There is a lit
Cigarette in the ashtray and
The smoke uncoils above them.

She is crying and he is holding her
By the shoulders where she lies.
As if he is holding her in place.
They barely touch, he is almost
Crouched above her body, holding
Her as she shakes and she cannot
Look at him. I'm sorry, she says.
She reaches for the dying cigarette.

125

Out in the street the air
Flowed through a mass
Of capillary junctions and
The main throbbing routes
Like a warm liquid. He
Felt its successive waves,
Making his way through
The crush, using lights of
Convenience stores and the
Vacillating neons above the
Club entrances as a lost
Mariner might constellations.
The bodies of drunks came
Leaning over his five foot
Frame as they passed and
As one fell into him Harlow
Gave him a close hard left
To the gut and saw him
Stagger down. There was a
Beating in his temple and a
Feeling of gravity and the
Lights were falling away
But it faded as he walked
On. He could feel the gun in
His sock, a reservoir of
Concentrated, silent energy.
It had rained and the
Stoplights had bled into the
Road. The stars ground on
As if attached by spokes to
A great dark wheel. And he
Thought Somewhere behind
There is an engine room.

124

It was a heavy night,
Humid, dull yellow and
Stagnant, the air full
Of the sound of traffic
And air conditioning and
Bars turning out. Harlow
Crouched in the alleyway
Taking the few rounds
Out of the snub and he
Put them away. He rolled
His pants at the ankle
And put the snub in his
Long yellow tennis sock.
He cracked his knuckles,
Both hands, and stood up.
The mouth of the alley
Was roaring and bright
Like the window of a car
On the subway passing
A station. He paused with
A hand on the dumpster
To look up, past massed
Fire escapes and grilles to
A cramped outlet on the
Heavens. He thought of
The cashier, slumped to
The floor behind the till.
Grey, the gash the pistol
Butt made growing livid.
He spat. Above him the
Stars were close, yellow.

123

He dreamed. Light flickered on
In a room of his past life:
He stood beneath the bulb as
It shone into the dark of
His old apartment. The light
Touched adjoining rooms, and
His half-formed shadow fell
Into them and objects he
Had lost were rendered by it
Softly and he felt the space
Yawn away from him. Where
He stood his hair was afire
With the light but his face was
Obscured. He wandered away.
In the darkest corner of the
Apartment he found the bed.
There was something in it,
A shape, pale and unbright,
And his heart was hammering.
He could not see. Gasoline
Colours played in his vision.
The pale shape on the bed
Drew to him and he smelt the
Musk of hair and sleep and
She touched his arm—still
Drowsy, childlike—Columbine.

122

Pierrot slept and the light
Came up. The mime remained
By the bed, motionless, dark.
Hunched and elongated, he
Gripped his own vertebrae
At the nape, his bones mapped
In the curtain light and his
Figure as if drawn up into the
Gulf of the white, cold room.
His face was hollow now, and
Unadorned. No show in him.
He ached again for a hit now.
He felt as if his ribcage would
Collapse inward, his arms
Had begun to prickle with heat.
His head was disassociated
From the room, outside of it.
The man before him was white
As a corpse but the fat of his
Abdomen rose from the lower
Edge of his shirt. Fabrice knew
He was fallen in shallow dream.

121

That morning I got up
And found him fallen on
The floor in the passage.
I half woke him and I
Tried to get him up but
Still did not have the
Strength to. But he came
Awake and shuddered to
His feet and leant on me
And I led him to his bed.
Is it morning? It looks
Light. Almost. Just sleep.
Will you shut the door.
It's broken. Just put it to.
His eyes seemed about to
Spill out of his ashen face.
He looked at me as if from
Beyond a threshold. Just
Put it to and let me sleep.

120

At six a.m. I was drifting
In and out of sleep and I
Could hear a harsh sound
Like something gasping for
Life; someone just stabbed.
Like OH, OH. He was in the
Bathroom. I realised it was
The saxophone. A sequence
Of notes fell out like it was
Breaking and I heard Fuck.
Later I opened my eyes
And he came out of there
With it around his neck,
In a loose, dirty white shirt
With black buttons like a
Parisian whiteface with his
Eyes seeming to bleed they
Were so red and in the
Dark room his lit cigarette
Shone in the structure of the
Instrument, the only light.
She is my mother he said,
And laughed in the dark.
I was still fallen asleep—
He was like some visitation.

119

I had been in withdrawal
For days lying on that couch
Sweating and shaking and he
Had locked me in and taken
The whiskey into the bathroom
And shouted in there and
Crashed into the door only
Coming out to go and buy
Cigarettes. I had not eaten
And the night my tremors
Reached the worst he was so
Gone he just screamed himself
Hoarse in there, his girlish
Voice contorting and it was
As if he was speaking to
Someone. He crashed in at
One point, fell down barking
Out some German folk song.
That night at around four a.m.
My fever broke and the white
Pain in my muscles and my
Gut began to subside and I
Drank some milk I had found
Beside me on the floor. He had
Written on the side of the
Carton in blood the word LUNG

118

He vomited and white particles seemed
To flare in his vision and dwindle
And he felt as if he were roaring
Out his innards, as if suddenly he
Would bring up a dark lump of
Himself and the skin would fall empty.
The light had been on but now it
Was dark and he fell back from
The bowl staring upward, and there
He saw as if suspended from the
Ceiling a chain of dull lights in
A soft gold aura, and it was dark
Yet. A string of them and then it
Thickened in coils and then a loop,
Long and slack. Like a noose of stars.
There was a low inchoate moaning
Coming from his throat. The room was
Suddenly full of stark light and a
Screaming mechanical noise and
From the noose there hung a black
Shape of cloth like a cowl. Now it
Was dark again and he was cowering
In his own sick and the cloth floated
Down. He felt its softness cover him
Lightly like sleep. He was sleeping.

117

He could see the electric clock
On the wall, grey, batteries
Running down. It said Timex
On it and it was ten to three.
He was arranged in the bottom
Corner of the bathroom like a
Dropped puppet. His head angled
Up at the clock as if twisted
Or broken, his eyes black, fixed.
Something unnatural. His hair as
White as his skin plastered to
It. His body in a bad posture.
The clock drew something up
Out of him, as he watched it.
It was all reeling in his head
And he could not break out
Of it by will and he slided to
The floor as it was coming in
In the black like rushing colour.
The dark that colour is of.

He passed out. There was a man
At the bar with a feathered
Fedora. And a clock on the wall
The colour of whiskey and he
Came to and began to vomit.

116

Harlow came up to the register
And pulled a snub revolver
From his belt and he put it
To the head of the cashier.
He was dressed in sneakers
And black pants and a yellow
Jersey, no. 24. He was small
And black and his thin head
Seemed to protrude crookedly
From the loose frame of his
Shoulders and his thin ribcage.
The cashier saw the aisle beyond
Him was empty and dark, blue,
Prolific with white bottles and
As if stretching into a vacuum.
Sweat formed in his mustache.
The store was a system outside
Of them, and they were alone.
Empty the register and hand
It to me Harlow said, quietly.
Hand you the register said the
Cashier. The child let there be a
Silence a moment and then he
Cocked the pistol and ground it
Into the forehead of the cashier.
You do not have to do this the
Cashier said and he was shaking.
Neither do you Harlow said.

115

I was nearly asleep and I
Could hear laughter and the
Sound of glasses and there was
Music that was low and it
Was far away. Sometimes my
Eyes nearly closed, it seemed
As if everything was lifting up
And away from me, at the
Window the trees were running
Away in the wind and it all
Faded in the music like when
You wake and don't remember.
I could hear my father's voice
By how deep it was and by
His laugh and somehow I felt
As if he was leaving, and then
I heard his voice as it was
All speeding away from me and
It said Don't be long now son

114

I am sat with him, and
It has been two days now.
He is drunk, has been so
Since he brought me here.
He has become very pale.
He feeds me whiskey as if
I were a child, as if it were
Medicine. And now he talks.
Know anything about the
Thermodynamic principle?
It's all—Nothing. We, we
Are outliers, like the shapes
It is making, when waves
Fall and a shape of foam
Is left there—That's like us.
Entropy. It all breaks down.
And we will reach a point
—Soon—Where it all will go
Back, return, contract, all
Disorder will fall in on its
Self—Syntropy, reordering.
Time will run backward,
They say. And no life, none.
Disorder is life's element.
We evaporate, not condense.
No life. Just a silent trillion-
Year lapse—Back into where
It, whatever—Singularity—
Or God, where he was born.
That would be the last death.
He drinks, and it seems he
Watches something moving in
The air before him, his eyes
Lit, darkly, until his head falls.

113

His eyes were open and he
Stared at me and at the
Knife. I was sure that there
Was nothing in his pockets,
Nothing capable of harm.
He was, if possible, yet
Paler than before and he
Sat trembling as water fell
From his hair and beaded
Across his contoured face.
There was a look of dumb
Incomprehension on his
Face, as if he had fallen out
Of coordination in the world,
Had somehow misplaced his
Cause and motive power.

Yet suddenly he sprang up,
Even from under the knife I
Held, and I had to withdraw
It up away from him of else
He would have been cut by it.
For an immaculate, bright
Instant he was a motionless
Figure within the downpour,
The rain breaking off his body
Like sparks from an anvil.
Suddenly he broke his pose
And made a bolt for the trees
And I didn't try to stop him.
There was a bottle in the
Grass filling up with rainwater.
And that was years ago, now.

112

I came from under the porch
Into the rain and walked over
Toward the figure in the chair
Under the bent spokes of the
Parasol, which was dark, wet.
I could see a halo of grey hair
And the white, taut skin of
A bare scalp and the lapsed
Shape of shoulders, supporting
A head weighted with sleep.
I walked around the lounger.
A pallid, misshapen, paunched
Man of perhaps fifty, eyes
Set back in chalky sockets like
Recesses in a cliff. He stank
Of alcohol even from several
Feet away. His white shirt was
Stained yellow with grass stains
On the arm as if he had fallen
In the night as he stumbled
In from the surrounding trees.

I took from my jacket a
Small kitchen knife and held
It in my hand and I began
To feel his pockets and as
I was doing this his eyes came
Open and he stared at me,
All but motionless, bloodshot.

111

I woke up at about six
And then again at six thirty.
Something brought me out of
Bed and onto the upstairs
Landing, and to the window.
There was rain coming off
The pines, and the air was
Full of its slow fall. Down
At the end of the yard near
The trees a puddle formed
In the dogeared grass was
Dancing with it continually.
The morning was dull and
Milky white, close with mist.
Ten yards from the porch was
A sun lounger and an old
Beach parasol, sodden, its
Red and yellow and white all
But faded like an abandoned
Circus tent. Somebody was
Down there, sitting in the sun
Lounger. I could see only
The outline of a figure, white,
Slumped as if unconscious.
It occurred to me it was this
Presence that had brought
Me from sleep, to the window.

I stood there looking at the
Rain and the slumped figure,
And then I went downstairs.

110

You can stay here, until
Nine a.m. tomorrow morning.
There is bread and in the
Fridge there is some milk.
If you want, there is more
Whiskey over on the TV.
If you smoke anything other
Than cigarettes in here, I
Have a Dutch-made hammer.

The body of him swayed
Over the half-conscious mime
Pale and indistinct like a
Dreamfigure, pausing to knock
Back whiskey and to close
His red and moist eyes.
Is there somewhere I can
Wash this off? He gestured
Vaguely to his own face.
Pierrot swayed close to him.
No. No water. Milk or whisky.

109

And I said to ma Hollis is
Sleeping should I wake him
And she said you mind you
And let Hollis mind his self
So I sat with my milk and
Then she said where's John
And I said he oughta been
Up with pa and she sent
Me out to the yard to get
John. It was cold out in the
Yard but it was September
Still. My breath was smoke.
Then I called out for John,
But he never come out or
Else he wasn't there. So I
Run to the barn and there
Was a shirt white and all
Soaked in the hay and it
Was John's. But he wasn't
There and I remembered
My milk cold at the table.

108

He is watching television and
Eating chocolate and it is the
Evening and the television says
In the next hour we and he
Changes the channel and the
Window is open and the sound
Of a church meeting at the
Community centre comes in
Borne on the rising air and
Their singing and shouting is
In contest with engineered to
Give you the sleep you need
And with the immanent noise
Of sugar and cocoa and fat
Churning in his large mouth.
He gets up and his shirt hangs
From him watermarked and
Stained with chocolate and
Vast and a beneficent voice is
Saying You cannot condemn
The others for their illusions

107

The mime chokes and comes
Awake and starts up coughing
Beating at his chest and it
Seems for the first time that
There is blood come into his
Face and he veers back to
Lie horizontally once more.
His eyes fix on Pierrot, drawn
Back darkly into the recesses
Of his painted face, watching
For any violent movement but
Pierrot only stands above him
Brandishing the liquorglass.

The television is playing but
It is mute. Inside it, arranged
As in diorama, an armoured
Vehicle moves minutely in the
Wreckage of an empty street.
The white hulking man and the
Drawn, lurid child maintain
Their nonmotion, and speak:
What is your name? Pierrot.
Do you speak French? No.

106

He come to in the barn
Where he was asleep in the
Dark in a pile of hay
But now it was light
And the bottle was there
Empty in the hay and of
A port in air and he
Rubbed his face and said
Boy, shit and looked at
His self and scrambled up.
It was light and blue
Light was coming through
The roofslats smelling of
Horses and of the team
Silas had put out to work.
Shit he said and took the
Bottle and flung it away
Into the trees where he
Heard it broke. And he
Heard a voice calling out
John, John, from the yard
Or somewhere, and it was
Me calling. It was my voice.

105

He sits at dusk in the back
Of the workshop where he
Can hear the rain and he
Waits for a cup of tea to
Cool that is sitting by the
Abstracted insides of an
Old steel and gold pendulum
Clock. His small, dry hand
Moves as if automated over
The wooden surface of the
Bench lifting up components
And replacing them in turn.
There is a tiny pair of pliers
In his mouth, and his off
Hand rests on a large vice.
Behind a pair of glasses his
Eyes are lost in reflection;
But they are there, moving,
Restlessly, from part to part.
When his movement ceases
The tea has cooled and he
Drinks it entirely and sits
Back in his chair for a long
Time listening to the rain
And to the precise working
Of his internal mechanism.
60 beats per minute, bipartite.

104

He is smoking in the back
Room, watching it grow dark.
His hunched back is pale
And indefinite against the
Window, and as he puts
The cigarette out he leans
And picks up a bottle of
Painkillers and a glass and
Pours whiskey and eats the
Pills, three, and he drinks.

He walks back into the other
Room where the mime is
A long skeletal shape on
The couch with a sheet on
Him; his narrow shoulders
Visible beneath it and the
Pale, shapeless framework
Of his outdrawn abdomen.
Pierrot stoops down by him
And grips the face by the jaw
And wrenches it and forces
A measure of the whiskey in.

103

He is sitting in the street at
A table outside a small cafe
With a coffee and a cigarette,
Wearing a white sports coat
And his loafers, and a cap.
Hair offwhite, skin offwhite.
He is watching a street mime.
The mime is tall, maybe six
Foot, and unnaturally thin;
The bones show at his ribs,
At his back, his neck, his
Ankles—he is a schematic.
He wears a thin polo shirt
And tights, and his face
Is white with thick tears in
Black. His eyes are black
Stars, and red at the core.

Pierrot sets the coffee down
And walks over to watch him.
He watches the slow motions
Of the mime's arms and the
Development of his figure;
He seems fluid in the air
Passing the street, as a flag,
His body loose beneath the
Fixed position of his skull.
He is morphic, deathlike.
There is an opiate smell as
Pierrot approaches; the mime
Ceases to move and his body
Loosens and his frame and
His arms and his stark face
Fall from the wooden pallet
And land in Pierrot's arms.

102

They pull at him, both,
And he dances away and
Spins heavily before they
Pile in and weigh on
Him again, and they seem
To dance together, three,
On their toes, gripped
In their all arms, the
Ball in his fat hand,
Tottering and rotating
And forging on as the
Sod flies up behind them.
Then they fall, and the
Fall is as limbed and as
Massive as that of a show
Horse failing at a gate.
They are felled together,
And the earth flies up.
One's mouthguard ejects
And one's mouth is red
With a cord of saliva
And one is motionless.

101

He sits in the cafe drinking
A can of Coca-Cola and he
Watches a television that is
Mounted on the wall over
The counter. It plays and it
Replays the same images for
Minutes at a time, and over
The images voices tune in and
Fade, urgent, unsure, pressing.
He watches and drinks the Coke,
Thinking should I go to work
Or stay here. Through the
Glass the street looks empty.
The owner went upstairs half
An hour ago to watch it on a
Tiny TV set with his sons. He
Is alone in the place with it;
Reiterated impact, the collosal
Structure falling, columns of
Rended steel and smoke, then
The plane again, then the tower,
Figures running, smoke, smoke.

99

He is at the sink, his head
Under the tap, cold water
Running off his bald crown
And through the remains of
His hair where it lies as if
Fallen at an explosion,
Black and limp and ragged.
The pale crown is doubled
In the small, dim mirror,
As is the bare lightbulb.
He comes up for air and
Looks at himself with a
Beard of clear water and
His scalp scattered all over
With broken light. He does
Not turn off the tap, he
Only stares at his own face
And listens to the basin fill
And does not recognise it.

From some abstract place
Above him, it is as if
The whole of his past life
Were pouring in, a great
Obscure pressure on him.
A mass, or a momentum.
As when, after a long drive,
He would sit and smoke and
Feel the room move forward.
He puts his head under again,
And it pour and pours.

98

He is at the store counting out
His change. Under the tubelights
He is like a kind of ghoul, so
Washed out as to seem fading
Into view constantly, always
On the boundary of being formed.
The attendant is behind the till
Watching him count, watching
The silver coins fall and gather
In his white, brittle hands.
His calculation is as detritus
Accumulating noiselessly in the
Thin atmosphere of the store;
He wears a bow tie, speaks only
Very softly; he seems a figure
Of ridicule to the attendant, in
His loose, white silk shirt and
His small, worn grey loafers.
A woman comes in and space
Sways around the carnations on
Her dress, and he watches her.

97

He stands in the morning light
In the white silk shirt with the
Big black buttons and outside
The window there is ventilator
Steam and traffic noise and he
Is pale and the shade is drawn.

He picks up the instrument to
Examine it: two kilograms of
Brass with raw and imperfect
Valves at intervals along its
Length; small metal pinions
And brass filaments and keys
Padded with dry pink sponge;
An etching of a flower; a solid,
Dull silver mouthpiece, with
Small steel ligature, Japanese.

He looks at it in the milky light
And his eyes are like dim eggs
And he replaces it on his desk.
He gets a tumbler of murky gin
From the white medicine cabinet
And sits down, a spent machine.

96

The house is dark as if all
Beyond it were yet to be made.
He puts on a jacket and he
Gets a bottle of beer from the
Refridgerator, unlocks the door
And steps out into the air.
The air is cool, it is September.
It is full of low noise and
Low evening light, the traffic
Up at the junction and drinkers
Somewhere in a nearby street
And streetlights and white lights
That flicker on as he passes them.
The world is grinding around
In one large continual course,
As loud and as steady as a factory.
Up at the cricket green he lies
Down away from the lights and
Drinks the beer and he peers up
At what stars are visible and
Senses their distant, slow rotation.
Gardens border the green, lit up,
Otherworldly, like empty stagesets.
He thinks how small England is.

Some three or four hundred lie
In their beds, or are yet awake,
Or, now cold, await being found.
Overhead, the stars carry on
Their distant, bleak emergency.

95

He is at the sink watching the
Front of the house when they
Pull up. There is a handgun
And two clips of ammunition
In the sink, a length of rope,
A stanley knife and some tape.
There is a strong wind and
Big wet leaves are blowing
Down from the trees and from
The guttering and hurtling past
The window in confused groups.
There is a sheen of rain over
Everything. The day is overcast.

Four men get out of the car.
His vision seems to have blurred
And he can hear his own breathing.
They are silent, watching the house.
One has a hand inside his jacket.

94

Wasps gather at the open seam
Of wood where the stump lies
On the driveway. There is sap
Under the bark in a strata of
Pink and they swarm at it.
As the shadow of the still
Blade of the chainsaw passes
Over they boil up in unison
And scatter and then recluster
In. The engine sputters and it
Produces an acrid wave of
Smoke that engulfs them and
That trails in ragged bits
Across the stump and disperses.
Then the saw bites and
A torrent of wooddust comes out.

The wasps weave and spiral in the
Rushing matter like embattled ships.

93

He stood before the refridgerator
And it was dark in the room.
The only light was from inside.
Bottles of lager and stacks of
Smoked ham and a brick of butter
With a clover leaf in the side of it.
The butter and ham and the beer
Shone with condensation in the
Blond light and he looked at them.
He heard the boiler firing on
The outside wall of the room
Adjacent. He slowly reached in
And took a beer and the ham
And the butter in hand and he
Opened the cupboard and he got
Bread and started to butter it
And he made a roll of ham and
Spead it with mustard and folded
It inside the slices of bread.
He paused with it in his hand
And listened to through the wall
To the low, dampened sound of
The man and woman next door
Fighting; the fall of feet on wood,
The formless howling noises, and
Then the obscure sound of a
Concussion vibrating in the wall.
He ate the sandwich slowly
And he went back to his bed.

91

He is at the table with eggs and
Coffee and cigarettes and the paper.
His face is pale and he leans in
To read the paper with a white
Scrap of egg hung from the prongs
Of the fork in his hand and he
Is motionless but for his red eyes.
The paper is old and the coffee also.
There are tracks of nicotine over
The surface of his palm as if a
Grained form of predetermination.
He reaches for a cigarette and for
His lighter and for a moment light
Visits the cavities of his still face
Flashing in and shaking on him and
In his rheumy eyes flames shake,
Until he snaps the lighter closed.
The only sounds are the articulations
Of a clock, and the cigarette burning.

90

He sits under the window in a
White silk shirt listening to the radio,
And drinking orange juice. It is 6am.
His hair is abstracted and greying
And rises to a pale crown that
Shines vaguely in the little light from
The windows. The curtains are drawn
So this comes in narrow cataracts, all
Is a dull blue and mainly it is dark.
The radio is low and it is something
About the war. Calm, measured voices,
As under some kind of anaesthetic.

He cradles his eyes in his hand.
They are far back in grey recesses
And they are closed. He gets up and
Reaches for his cigarettes and stands
With one in his mouth doing up the
Black buttons of his shirt. It seems big
In the half light—as if he were a clown,
Or a mime, or a child in a nightgown.

89

I followed her through the back
Fields and the air was humming
With motes and white particles
Of cotton and spores and insects.
The high grass was burning as it
Caught the light and it dropped
Into shadow where I trampled it
And I could see patches of her
White dress as she skipped ahead.
But she was lost because it was
Getting dark out and the stars
Were prickling out like burrs.
I heard her yelp and fall down
And when I got there she was
Lying in a depression of the grass
Grown ragged all around and she
Was laughing and her dress was
White I could see the shape of.
I stood over her where she lay.
She stopped laughing and she
Pulled me down slowly to her.

88

The potato plants are dying and it
Has just rained and the sunset
Is paling out beyond the hawthorns.
The dry joists of old growth are
A yellow that lumines of itself where
They cluster brightly in the cool and
Falling air like shabby fireworks.
Structures grand in death, they
Gain a deep light as the evening
Lets go itself, ending almost white
As if their former tubers had shed
And abandoned elaborate wings.
They resign their intricacies now,
Become jaune blurs against darkness
Like gouts of soft smoke broken
And drifting after a downpour. They
Dissolve and refigure, and with them
All shade and contour and motion.

87

It is after the rain the passerines
Cross the gulf from the far trees
To the cherry in the lee of the
House, the branches trembling as
Solitary drops leave them as the
Sunflowers limpid and bright sway.
Then the passerines cross to feed
In the premature gloom, a light
That pulls colour from the plumage
Of the birds and from the earth.
They pivot on the air in contest
And reorder themselves continually
And eat the dry millet from the
Plastic vessels and meshwire tubes
And come and go from the bushes
In abrupt clusters of wingbeats
With no system at all in their action.
Their hearts race all the time inside
Them, made up of ligaments and
Valves like minute components in
An archaic and dense clockwork.
They are all motion, recrossing dark.
They starve in their sleep otherwise.

86

I sit on the porch and clean
My gun piece by piece first the
Receiver then the rotary magazine
Then the operating rod and the
Small valves like the chambers of
The heart. The rotary magazine
Seems to stick as I reinsert it so I
Get oil and a cloth and work it
Over until the action is fluid. Then
I get wood treatment and I take
The long joined piece of the stock
And the misshaped butt and rub
The wood with oil and reattach it.
Finally I affix to the iron end stub
A small bayonet. This is for if the
Shot should bring the animal
Down maybe hitting only an artery
Or the spine but not kill it in which
Case we use the bayonet as a mercy
And an expedient. I stand the rifle
Against the facade and sit a while
In the yellow atmosphere out here.

85

That night I remember I was up
Late at the kitchen table drinking a
Glass of milk when he came in all
Messed up. He was stumbling around
And shaking something terrible as
He took off his work clothes in
The dark by the door and when
He came to the table he was red
In the face drinking a glass of water
And closing his eyes. He didn't talk at
All and I only heard days later
How Job had become caught in
The thresher and how they had not
Been able to shut it off and how
It had ground on for a quarter of a
Mile with them all heaving at Job
And at the machine and screaming
At each other and how when John
Finally ripped the tubes out of the
Ignition Job was mutilated so bad
His arm was gone to the shoulder
And he was sick grey, and how they
Had carried the body five miles to
His mother's house and laid him
Out in a stretcher of old plastic.

84

I came in from the yard to get
A cup of water and Dewey was
Sat up at the table with a glass
Of milk in his hands underneath
The lightbulb that swung above
The table when I opened the door.
He looked up and the light was
On him but I couldn't see his
Face real well. I went to the
Faucet and got a glass of cold water.
I was real tired and I didn't
Look at him much but then I sat
And I looked at him and he
Drank his milk and I could
Feel he was watching me because
I was so tired. We sat that way
For minutes and it was like
His eye sockets were black because
The lightbulb was so bright
And after a while I went up to bed.

83

He makes cover and shoulders into
The mud and he feels it soaking
Into his fatigues and the lash of
Rain as it breaks into the earth
Spattering his face and he breathes
Ragged and swallows and lifts his
M4 carefully over the incline and
Draws the stock to his body and
Staring into the dense atmosphere he
Takes aim and repeatedly discharges
The rifle into the enemy positions and
Reloads counting his remaining rounds.
Ordinance is falling around him where
He lies in a recess and as he reapplies
The rifle to the distance he is deafened
By a mortar detonating several metres
To the right and he fires silently
Through it the only sound the blood
Palpitating in his auditory canal and a
Thud in his chest cavity as the rifle
Recoils with the force of each discharge.

82

He is in the gun turret behind an
Iron defense painted khaki and
There is a corridor in the center
Of the shield wide enough for
A sight and the breadth of the
Machine gun through which he can
See the terrain agitate and reform
With the constant jolting of the tank
On which the the turret is mounted.
During the moments between jolts
The landscape ahead clarifies and it
Populates with figures that retreat
As the vehicle approaches and he
Recognises their formation and the
Motion of them and their paths
And he isolates them sequentially
In the crosshairs and operates the
Machine gun in order to arrest them.
The figures fall out of continuity. He
Fires until depleted and then loads a
New cartridge and continues to fire.