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.