I now replace desire 

with meaning. 

Instead of saying, I want you, I say, 

there is meaning between us.

Meaning can swim, has taken lessons from the river 

of itself. Desire is air. One puncture 

above a black lake and she lies flat.

I now replace intensity with meaning.

One is a black hole of boundless appetite, a false womb,

another is a sentence.

My therapist says children need a “father” for language 

and a “mother” for everything else.

She doesn’t get that it’s all language. There is no else. 

Else is a fiction of life, and a fact of death.

That night, we don’t touch. 

We ruin nothing. 

We get bagels in the morning before you leave on a train, 

and I smoke a skinny cigarette and think 

I look glam, like an Italian diva.

You make a joke at my expense, which is not a joke, really, 

but a way to say I know you. 

I don’t feed on you. Instead, I watch you 

like a faraway tree. 

Desire loves the what if, the if only, the maybe in another lifetime. 

She loves a parallel universe. Or seven. 

Meaning knows its minerals,

knows which volcanic magma belongs 

to which volcanic fleet.

Knows the earth has parents. That a person is raised. 

It’s the real flirtation, to say, you are not a meal. 

To say, I want you 

to last. 

Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
                 Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
       the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
       recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
       Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
       of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
       what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
       We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
     No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,
                 if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

A zombie is a head
with a hole in it.

Layers of plastic,
putty, and crust.

The mindless
must be sated.

Mottled men who will
always return

          mouthing wet                          
          promises.                                  

You rise already
harmed and follow

          my sad circle

as if dancing
on shattered legs.

Shoeless, toeless,
such tender absences.

You come to me
ripped

          in linens and reds,

eternal, autumnal
with rust and wonder.

My servant, sublimate
and I am yours

(the hot death
we would give each other).

My dark ardor,
my dark augur.

Love to the very open-
mouthed end.

We are made of
so much hunger.

^{translated from the German by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky}

She sits upon my bed at dusk, unsought,
And makes my soul obedient to her will,
And in the twilight, still as dreams are still,
Her pupils narrow to bright threads that thrill 
About the sensuous windings of her thought.

And on the neighboring couch, spread crepitant, 
The pointed-patterned, pale narcissus fling 
Their hands toward the pillow, where yet cling 
His kisses, and the dreams thence blossoming,— 
On the white beds a sweet and swooning scent.

The smiling moonwoman dips in cloudy swells,
And my wan, suffering psyches know new power, 
Finding their strength in conflict’s tortured hour.

Sphinx

 Sie sitzt an meinem Bette in der Abendzeit 
Und meine Seele tut nach ihrem Willen, 
Und in dem Dämmerscheine, traumesstillen, 
Engen wie Fäden dünn sich ihre Glanzpupillen 
Um ihrer Sinne schläfrige Geschmeidigkeit. 

Und auf dem Nebenbette an den Leinennähten
Knistern die Spitzenranken von Narzissen,
Und ihre Hände dehnen breit sich nach dem Kissen
Auf dem noch Träume blühn aus seinen Küssen,
Wie süßer Duft auf weißen Beeten.

Und lächelnd taucht die Mondfrau in die Wolkenwellen
Und meine bleichen, leidenden Psychen
Erstarken neu im Kampf mit Widersprüchen.

Who hears the humming 
of rocks at great height, 
the long steady drone
of granite holding together, 
the strumming of obsidian 
to itself? I go among 
the stones stooping 
and pecking like a 
sparrow, imagining
the glacier’s final push 
resounding still. In 
a freezing mountain 
stream, my hand opens 
scratched and raw and 
flutters strangely, 
more like an animal 
or wild blossom in wind 
than any part of me. Great 
fields of stone 
stretching away under 
a slate sky, their single 
flower the flower 
of my right hand. 
                              Last night
the fire died into itself 
black stick by stick 
and the dark came out 
of my eyes flooding 
everything. I 
slept alone and dreamed 
of you in an old house 
back home among 
your country people,
among the dead, not 
any living one besides 
yourself. I woke 
scared by the gasping 
of a wild one, scared 
by my own breath, and 
slowly calmed 
remembering your weight 
beside me all these 
years, and here and 
there an eye of stone 
gleamed with the warm light 
of an absent star. 
                               Today
in this high clear room 
of the world, I squat 
to the life of rocks 
jewelled in the stream 
or whispering 
like shards. What fears 
are still held locked 
in the veins till the last 
fire, and who will calm 
us then under a gold sky 
that will be all of earth? 
Two miles below on the burning 
summer plains, you go 
about your life one 
more day. I give you 
almond blossoms 
for your hair, your hair 
that will be white, I give 
the world my worn-out breath 
on an old tune, I give 
it all I have 
and take it back again.

Opened
between
void and
recognition.
The not
vivid.
Color
empty,
casual.
Unlike
memory,
bliss in dark-
ness, an
announcement.
Movement
outlined
not
contained
—a small
feeling, I
can’t, like
happiness
outlived.
A month.
The trim
clock.
The same
indignity:
elevator,
groceries,
an armload
of August
wildflowers.
My friend,
nowhere.
Duration.
To this
collapsing
hall, this
charging late
gold in summer,
my color.
—Eyes
close,
the answer
between
everything.
Peony.
Chamomile.
Marigold.
The flagrant
underworld
opened now
against
metaphor …
The moral
of the flower
is the
flower.

^{—on my seventy-ninth birthday}

Nobody in the widow’s household
ever celebrated anniversaries. 
In the secrecy of my room 
I would not admit I cared 
that my friends were given parties. 
Before I left town for school 
my birthday went up in smoke 
in a fire at City Hall that gutted 
the Department of Vital Statistics. 
If it weren’t for a census report 
of a five-year-old White Male 
sharing my mother’s address 
at the Green Street tenement in Worcester 
I’d have no documentary proof 
that I exist. You are the first, 
my dear, to bully me 
into these festive occasions.

Sometimes, you say, I wear 
an abstracted look that drives you 
up the wall, as though it signified 
distress or disaffection. 
Don’t take it so to heart. 
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much 
as being who I am. Maybe 
it’s time for me to practice 
growing old. The way I look 
at it, I’m passing through a phase: 
gradually I’m changing to a word. 
Whatever you choose to claim 
of me is always yours; 
nothing is truly mine 
except my name. I only 
borrowed this dust.

Eruptive lightnings flutter to and fro
Above the heights of immemorial hills;
Thirst-stricken air, dumb-throated, in its woe
Limply down-sagging, its limp body spills
Upon the earth. A panting silence fills
The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars
Of sullen silver, where the lake distils
Its misered bounty.—Hark! No whisper mars
The utter silence of the untranslated stars.

there is a 
moon sole 
in the blue 
night 

             amorous of waters 
tremulous, 
blinded with silence the 
undulous heaven yearns where 

in tense starlessness 
anoint with ardor 
the yellow lover 

stands in the dumb dark 
svelte 
and 
urgent 

           (again 
love i slowly 
gather 
of thy languorous mouth the 

thrilling 
flower)

if i believe 
in death be sure 
of this 
it is 

because you have loved me, 
moon and sunset 
stars and flowers 
gold crescendo and silver muting 

of seatides 
i trusted not, 
                        one night 
when in my fingers 

drooped your shining body 
when my heart 
sang between your perfect 
breasts 

darkness and beauty of stars 
was on my mouth petals danced 
against my eyes 
and down 

the singing reaches of 
my soul 
spoke 
the green-

greeting pale-
departing irrevocable 
sea 
i knew thee death. 

                                  and when 
i have offered up each fragrant 
night,when all my days 
shall have before a certain 

face become 
white 
perfume 
only, 

         from the ashes 
then 
thou wilt rise and thou 
wilt come to her and brush 

the mischief from her eyes and fold 
her 
mouth the new 
flower with 

thy unimaginable 
wings,where dwells the breath 
of all persisting stars

When we two parted
   In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
   To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
   Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
   Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
   Sunk chill on my brow— 
It felt like the warning
   Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
   And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
   And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
   A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
   Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
   Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
   Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
   In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
   Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
   After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
   With silence and tears.

^{translated from the Chinese by Marilyn Chin}

In the eighth month of autumn high angry winds howl   
Blowing three layers of thatch off my humble house   
The thatch fly over the river, scattering shards
Some pieces soar so high they hang on treetops
Some plummet down to earth covering ditches and pools      
A gang of hoodlums from the southern village appear
They bully me ruthlessly, but I’m too old and weak to fight    
They dare to rob me in front of my face          
Then grab the spoils and run into the bamboo wilds
Mouth parched, lips burning, I shout after them in vain  
I feel defeated, slump against my cane, and heave a deep sigh       
The winds finally calm down, the clouds turn dark as ink
The autumn sky is hovering ominously, slowly turning black
My old worn cotton quilt feels as cold as iron
My dear children sleep poorly, thrashing and ripping the covers 
Bed after bed is soaked, the roof is dripping, no room is dry 
The rain batters us endlessly, falling as heavy as hemp    
I am lost in chaos and misery and can barely sleep a wink
Such a damn long night—I am soaked and exhausted, I cry out, “Why?”
If I could build a grand palace with a thousand, ten-thousand rooms
   A safe-house standing on a hill so strong that violent storms can’t destroy
   If I could shelter all the impoverished poets and scholars under heaven    
   Offer them a gathering place of peace and joy—
If I could hold this spectacular vision in my eyes
Then I would gladly freeze to death in my lonely broken home   

茅屋為秋風所破歌

八月秋高風怒號
卷我屋上三重茅
茅飛度江灑江郊
高者掛罥長林梢
下者飄轉沉塘坳
南村群童欺我老無力
忍能對面為盜賊
公然抱茅入竹去
唇焦口燥呼不得
歸來倚杖自嘆息
俄頃風定雲墨色
秋天漠漠曏昏黑
布衾多年冷似鐵
驕兒惡臥踏裏裂
床床屋漏無干處
雨腳如麻未斷絕
自經喪亂少睡眠
長夜沾濕何由徹
安得廣廈千萬間
大庇天下寒士俱歡顏
風雨不動安如山
嗚呼何時眼前突兀見此屋
吾廬獨破受凍死亦足

I.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

   There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
   There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
   There is society where none intrudes,
   By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
   I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
   From these our interviews, in which I steal
   From all I may be, or have been before,
   To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
   Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
   Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
   A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
   When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

   His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
   Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
   For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
   Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
   And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
   And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
   His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

A bed should be a tender slab, devoid of insects.

A tired woman should be able to lie across diagonally,
headache to hag feet.

A bed should exist in crystalline silence.

It should have a sleepy blue view.
A nearby window not close to voyeurs.

A bed should have a special pillow to shush the head,
to coddle and safety the amygdala.

If established on the ground, a bed should have
a bioluminescent quilt to redirect the gaze: the prey
is over there.

If established in a tree, the quilt may allow for free feet
or a tossback with luxuriant abandon.

Among other things, do not build your bed on dictionaries
or books of any kind.

A bed is best made from a wood frame, or metal, or dark matter.

A bed should be free of lye, lime, and liars.

One should be able to enter the bed and think
I could fly far away in this. I could die; I could just die.

I walk the world with a locked box
Lodged in my chest. Doctor, it hurts
But not as much as it should. In Bucha,

On the roadway of the Street of Apples
A woman lay four weeks straight
Unburied even by snow. They saw her red

Coat and rolled right over, Russians,
Tanked and vigilant in their to and fro. 
Doctor, there’s nothing wrong with me

That isn’t also true of many others. 
At night I sleep under a vast epiphany
That hasn’t descended upon me,

Pinpricks that shine a white writing 
I can’t read. I don’t want to know 
Yet. Instead I ask to stay here, greedy 

For the smell of autumn. Before 
Leaving, I’ve made a miniature of me
To witness the raising of the sea, 

To watch over the unimaginable,
To greet this revelation of a future 
With those new names it will need.