xxxi. Seasonal

Am I awake? These the White Woods
 at last? Do I dream? Do I yet live?
Breath sweating, heart drenched, seems so,
 yes. My friend does not slow until
we are deep within. No paths here.
 None would stick. I hold my stone,
its faint beacon, & hurry ever slower.

Stand. Simply stand. Looking for a white birch
 in a White Woods. I want to cry
for the fool of it all, laugh too.

Then remember the boys who laughed &
 painted in my class, now taken to war.
The girls they blushed & what ruin to a young
 heart to see your friends taken away.
Life too soon convincing you of its
 inevitable consume.

But unwilling to run again. My old friend
 will companion me now or he’d done
me the kindness of getting me here. Walking
 less apace, I feel again the peace here,
it’s not manful & therefore trees are
 trees, the Woods not squeezed & again
for its last prized juice.

Come into a clearing where my friend
 sits at fire. I find a kneeling place
on its other side.

He talks again, gazing the skies. “I like
 the moon at first slice, & a wet night
like this one, on my beard, beneath
 my ass. The air slow & calm.”

I nod, wondering at this great Beast &
 how he once stood at table waiting
my mother’s word, my father’s command.

He talks on. “I look for freshly fell logs
 like this one & wait for her. As you see
me, naked, muddied chest & arms from
 my runnings.” Pauses. Looks around
with the sweet wonder of a child.
 “I listen. She won’t come. I don’t listen.
She may pass by.”

Recalls me, this night, like a reluctant
 breath. “There was a storm, she seemed
near,” he whispers. Lost in his memory’s darker night.

“Why did you serve my parents?” I say,
 recovered to my own search.
He looks fully at me, shock, but the same
 wonder. “It was her, Francisco. She believed
that the world & men could be reconciled.
 ‘We all belong here, together,’ she’d say
to me. ‘Tell them.’”

Coughs. “So I went to your world &
 was found a freak, a monster. My food
poisoned to keep me docile. Till your parents
 grew poor & turned me out again.”

“Did you tell them? What she said?”
“I tried, at first. But her words seemed
 too pretty, too green for the men’s metal world
I now inhabited. I tended you & long
 let that be my task.”

“And gave me your stone.” Silence.
 “Is that why she won’t come to you?
You failed her as emissary?”
 More silence.

I want to comfort him. “You were kind
 to me. That’s never a waste in this world.
You’ve brought me here, looking for my own
 love. Perhaps I can do here what you
failed there.” I put my hand on his furred
 slumped shoulder. “Help me now.”

“How?”
“There is a white birch.”
“There are many.”
“This one’s trunk has moving faces upon
 it. Men, women, other kinds.”
“What would you have with it?”
“I would paint it.”
“Why?”
“I am bid too.”

His great shaggy face looks up at me,
 bit of the wonder in it, alarmingly
blue eyes. Breathes in, out. Reaches up
 his hand to me. “I’m sorry I had to
leave you.” I nod. “I’ll find your tree.
 You’ll speak . . . to her . . . for me?”

No longer his young charge, him no longer
 my servant. Now just hers. Like me &
mine. Complete our bargain in first light
 & he lifts me, a bit like old, carries me to a cave
of his devising. Lets me sleep alone
 among his leaves & sheered fur. Doesn’t
sleep himself, even by daylight. She might
 come. Then he’ll show her me. And explain.

******

xxxii. Nocturne By Cave

Still the dream enraptures me.
Still I believe in something.
Long past, still not ready, to call it Godd.
No, it’s a taste, a sniff, the last sound
 in a quiet valley’s day.
Skin, smooth as sea foam, warm as
 summer’s night wind on my cheek.
First snowfall decorating my hair.
 Everything touches, that’s why.

“Let them watch you bathe,” I say,
 feeling her skin rosen in the shifting
breeze. She holds her pose for me,
 hands awkwardly framing her breast.
Nipples still hard from my lips, pussy still
 glistening from long holding me in her.
“Let them watch,” I hiss, shrouded
 as them to her in my way. I keep
sketching as the dirty lookers linger.
 “Again, when they go?” she purrs.

Who? Which? I wake. I finished the girl
 & kept the picture. Like so many others,
she poses for another now, or better yet
 sleeps quiet smiling in loving arms.

Feel around in the dark, my rucksack,
 paints & brushes, my canvas tied to it.
I hold these to me. Probably doze again.

My cat, my bats, my several faces.
My cold dark mare called Dream.
My easel where what happens is like music.
My room’s best late hours when drunken voices
 pass near, praising friendship, damning love.
I listen, I paint their cracked hearts
 into her face, whichever her, stroke by stroke.

I slept head down in my arms at my table
 as often as abed. These were the good years.
I smiled into sleep. We all play there.

Again, awake. Sweat upon my single canvas.
 My friend is with me. His eyes glowing
as eyes oughtn’t in this pitch. But kind.
 Not wanting, needing, giving to get. Kind
to me because we both exist, because the world
 is, because to cluster, because to dance,
because to touch, open hands, shared meals,
 & you come, & you, stranger, come too.

Holds a cup closely to my hands.
 Speaks again in my language with his strange
Beast’s tongue. “Drink this, brother, &
 maintain your life, & paint again.
It is a drink to renew your deep hunger,
 soothe open your rusted pores, your deeper
thoughts, your ascending lusts.”

I drink, burns me, burns me harder,
 lights in my veins, bruised & sorrowful
places I’ve long not seen. He talks,
 he croons, “To live is to wave your arms
wildly, blink your eyes deep in the night,
 breathe heavy & light by will & whim.

“’Tis my gift to you, my old friend,
 this drink. You’ll not see me again,
beneath that thin slice of moon, the sweat
 on my ass, the stone I led you by.”

Silence. “The night remains. Sleep into
 my gift. Wake into it. Remember
the music, remember it well.
 Sing it as you go from here, it will
lead you to your wished place.
 Goodbye, Francisco, my friend, my love.”

******

xxxiii. Travel, Alone, White Woods

The night, still heavy & beautiful,
 as I crawl from the cave, my friend’s
drink deepening in me, bites when I stiffen,
 when I try to curl within, just let, a little
more. Stand now, Francisco, begin
 to move.

Yet I see. Distinguish the trunks &
 the spaces between, darkness inviting
me along, mine eyes not impeding. Feeling
 my rucksack solid on my back, stars too big
& close above, yet benign, I move along.
 Feels good, like I am let, like my will
to do is regarded.

Oh. It’s the low hmmmmmm in my throat.
 I had not known it was there. Did my
friend? Yes, he did. So I hmmm, so
 I move. This is not me wakeful, nor
is this me back in that cave.

Voices, tiny, cackling, gnattering voices
 in the night. I listen. Merry cacophony.
“The air is swift & vain!”
“’Tis cold but not ice!”
“I can only breathe or sleep!”
“Your third foot is tickling my ass!”
“Taste the shell, like cherry, like smoke,
 like dancing on wet sand by new moon!”
“My hair should flutter that way!”
“Your hair is swift & vain!”

I feel a thousand little kisses prickle
 my face as their voices fade & I move on.

I keep moving, tho feel less my feet,
 or my body, do I sleep, will I
disappear entirely? Hmmm higher,
 lower, something grasps me within,
would have a better look at what I am.

A blur, I keep hmmming, hopeful, desperate,
 & open my eyes. My old room! My
easel. It was a beloved night, I feel
 myself occupying it again. We drank
wine & I painted you a picture from
 my rare light-hearted dream.

Two comical figures on my canvas, are they
 men or fantasticas? One smaller, but sure
muscular legs. The other heavier, a lovely
 laugh upon his face. The smaller has an
apparatus upon his back, a sort of strapped-
 upon-him seat? The heavier one half
tucked into it, laughing them both into
 this new conveyance. Their next travel.

You watch this picture reveal itself,
 laugh as much as these figures. My last
trick is a nod, a wink, & the two figures
 tip their bowler caps to you &
blow far gone through raised dust.

“How?” you ask. Your eyes wonder what
 I cannot do. Were it so. My memories
themselves distort to love you better than
 I did.

The stars have relented a little now.
 The night lets up in my blood & eyes.
We let each other go slowly, my friend’s
 drink is finishing, the hmmm in my throat
is fading down into my heart. I am
 approaching what I seek, all this play
has gentled my sad travel.

What will painting this picture do,
 if aught, to return you to me?
What have I to give you but my regrets
 & lingering vain needs?
What do I have more to offer now than days
 when my friend washed my paints from
  my face & nails?
What am I to sing my expectations to
 this magical, eternal place?
How can I paint in one or a thousand
 canvases the tender porcelain beauties
  of this world, its ferocious wonders?
How do I say well enough, often enough,
 ever & always, I’m sorry, I love you,
I’m sorry, I love you?

My feet again beneath me, the light
 crackling in like a newfound stream,
I stop. Behold, my, my, my. The White Birch.

******

xxxiv. Into the Dark

“If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark”
—Death Cab for Cutie, 2005.

She smiles at me. Hair down, a purr in her eyes.
 Turquoise eyes. Wet lips. Speak. I’ll listen this time.

“There is no center to break nor edge
 to run over,” she whispers, fingers on my
shoulder, resting. “All goes on & on,” her whisper
 softer, wetter. I nod, yes, listen. “Time neither
recurring nor beginning nor ending.” Hand now
 on my leg, but softly. I let a little, to see what:
her bed in this dream. Let her continue.

“All is, continuously. Before, there is
 another before; after, another after,
& so on.” A quick breath, a giggle? & she is
 atop me, agile for a single-footed girl.
Listens my thoughts, laughs.

“How this & me standing before your White Birch too?”
“How, Francisco?”
“I closed my eyes?”
“Is your easel set up?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“And your single canvas?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you are dreaming me too? A good night?”
“A very good one. Another I am sad to remember.”
“Sad?”

“Painting this picture won’t bring you back
 to me, will it?”
“I’m here?”
“Not in my dreams.”
“What else, Francisco?”

I tempt to open my eyes & let this go, but don’t.
 “What then? Why come here? Why paint
this canvas?” “Finish the canvas,
 Francisco.” “ I don’t understand.”

“You want to help your friend?”
“Yes.”
“You want to stop hurting over me?”
“If I can’t have you?”
“Yes. Francisco. I am gone. I’m sorry.”

“How can I stop hurting?”
“By forgetting.”
“How?”
“By finishing your painting.”
“I don’t understand.”

“You want to help your friend. Show
 his beloved that you were worth his
love & service? Win her again?”
“Yes.”
“Finishing your painting, Francisco.
 Every stroke will let me go, forget me
with all your love, & your sacrifice
 will show your worth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me go. Finish your painting.”

I open my eyes. Moonlit clearing,
 deep in winter Woods. White Birch.
Look at my canvas, start. It’s cut,
 damaged, as the one I painted, as the one
I lost so long ago.

I try to cohere. My brushes, my paints.
 I am Francisco. Here I sought for you.
This clearing. That White Birch.
 Here I let you go?

I nod, unknowing, but how to paint.
 The light is moody for my task,
diffuse, like clouds tremor discontent
 across the moon’s face.

I begin, slowly. Work around the edges.
 Remember how I found this, that other,
canvas, in the attic, how I worked
 on it relentlessly. But then less &
less over time.

“I never did finish it,” I say softly
 to whatever resides this clearing
with me right now, watches or listens.
 “My first canvas & I never finished
it. Like I was holding back, saving something.”

More of the painting fills in, the Woods
 about me, a mix of minute detailing &
casual scratchings. “And somehow you
 knew this, know it.” I smile, the tree
giving me its shape, its movement, the air
 it grips & curls about.

Look around. Shake my head. It’s true.
 Each stroke I am leaving you. She
watches me. His beloved. As mine going.

I could not teach my students to do
 what I am doing, to breathe by my brush
closer & closer to you, beautiful White Birch,
 amongst your equally beautiful companions.

She watches & I have to speak. “I don’t
 know if what I am doing is more for his
winning you back or for my own heart’s
 forgetting.”

“He never lost me.”
“He thinks he did.”
“Francisco, were you listening to her?”
I laugh. “I heard the words. But I was
 tasting her in my heart. The wise words
exploding in my mind. Do you understand?
 I will forget & thus become another man.”

She is quiet again, satisfied? perhaps
 loped along to find him. I hope so.

The painting is near done, but would
 not be one of mine if I didn’t apply
my old servant’s, my friend’s, trick to it.
 Taught to amuse a sleepless boy, he didn’t
know canvases were static. Thus mine
 move, would speak, dream, travel,
if I will.

You are the central face I render in
 the tree’s trunk of moving images. You
are smiling just for me. You are speaking
 to me again &, yes, I listen &, yes,
I touch & taste & explode worlds out
 to you, wherever you may be.

Stroke: “You will live forever.”
Stroke: “You will one day become that
 glaring, glowing, soft, biting, diffuse place
you simply paint tonight.”
Last stroke: “Before then you’ll be watched
 by another,  play his clue & key.”

Stare for a long time at my canvas. Someone
 is watching. A man? Two?

What a beautiful place to come to.
How did I come here?
Who told me of it?
Who is the beautiful face smiling
 in my painting’s White Birch trunk?

Do they know?

******

xxxv. Self-Portrait: Despair

“I drift into the great unknown
I really don’t know where I’m going.”
—Lord Huron, “Fool for Love,” 2015.

They approach. A tall, thin man in a
 long coat, walking with a strange, thick
  staff. A girl, I think. Her layers of
 clothing show me little, make me wonder
much. But who are these?

The tall man smiles slightly at me, looks
 toward my canvas. “My, my, my.
You paint an elegant loving picture of
 what you see here.”

“And it . . . moves?” says the girl.
 Just one quiet sniff & I decide: girl enough.

The canvas’s White Birch bares faces,
 human & otherwise, that shift in position,
expression. The clearing & Woods beyond
 also move slightly, the light shifts
with the sky’s slight movements. Still,
 central is the girl’s face, smiling at me.
For me?

I begin to breathe hard, too hard, stagger
 & would fall but they catch me, lead
me to the tree I rendered, sit me by
 its several close trunks, the big one &
its smaller mates. I sit heavily, dizzily.

“Have you eaten, drunk today?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
They feed me nuts, small bits of fruit,
 have me chew slowly. Sip water. Her eyes are
warm, kind, I worry less about what
 her clothes shroud. His face is intelligent,
knowing. Yet presumes nothing but to tender
 me. I calm. I feel how far from calm
I was as I do.

“Are you from the city too?”
They shake their heads. “We came by
 boat.”
“Boat? But we aren’t near the sea.”
“We’ve walked awhile since we landed,”
 she says softly. They can’t help but
trade a glance between them.

I smile, hand them back their water
 bottle, sack of food. Want to take
my canvas & go.

But . . . go where? However I got myself
 out to these Woods, I can’t go back.
These strangers, & my painting, are all
 I’ve got. I sigh, & release.

“My city was overrun. I teach painting
 by trade. My students were conscripted.
Maybe I knocked my head, since I don’t
 remember how I got out here.”

They listen intensely.

“I can’t go back. Would you let me travel
 with you awhile?” I stop, smile, try.
“I’m Francisco.”

They don’t seemed surprised by my request.
Each stands up, and offers me a hand up.
Something settled among us.

We leave the White Birch & its clearing,
 & proceed single file through these pathless
White Woods. Dreamwalker, he calls himself,
 first, then me, then Asoyadonna is her
strange name. Me in the middle,
 as though protected, or the weak one.
I can’t say they’re wrong. My gaped memory,
 me in the Woods with a canvas & paints to bide me.

“Where were you bound when you found me?”
 I ask him. Unsure their intimacy,
but careful of it.

She answers anyway. “It’s not a place.
 It’s more like we’re looking for others.”
“Others?”
“Others like us?” She smiles at me, like
 the word hasn’t been contrived for her meaning.
“Brothers,” Dreamwalker says, briefly,
 keeping his pace. But continues: “We found
each other, & now we’ve found you.”

I stop. Look at them. “I’m essentially
 a homeless man with a single canvas
for my possessions. What kind of brother
 can I make to you but a needful one?”

Dreamwalker bids me unstrap my canvas
 for a look. We lean it against a less
imposing white tree.

“Regard its six leaves.”
“Yes.”
“Is that all the tree bore?”
“Um?”
Dreamwalker grimaces at me. “Francisco,
 we are three of these leaves.”
“Three?”
Asoyadonna smiles her witching smile
 at me. “By your painting’s count,
we have three to find.”

They wait quietly for me to shoulder my
 canvas again, & we move on. Dreamwalker,
I notice, is hmmming softly but with
 purpose.

I go with them because I have no home
 to return to. I feel weakened by
my memory’s holes, as though my body
 itself weakened. But they feed me,
we sleep close together & they hmmm
 me into my dreams. Waiting there,
too, for me, but when I’m ready.

******

xxxvi. Self-Portrait: Hope

When I let in dreams, finally, to my
 new friends, it isn’t clear quite that
we are dreaming. We sit together,
 in these same Woods, in a clearing,
big enough for a fire. They eschew meat,
 it seems, but we have plenty of nuts
& fruits. I concede this easily. What Creature
 would I harm in this strange Woods?
I feel better thinking this, & couldn’t say
 why. They lead me, I accept this, will
maybe prove my worth anon.

Others join us, in this dream, but
 as though welcomed & easy friends.
A White Bunny, her eyes trancing to behold.
 A tiny gnattering thing, too, like a panda
bear contrived by several raindrops. A turtle
 too, of some unknown kind. Not quite, I think.

They sit between Dreamwalker &
 Asoyadonna, but all sniff in my direction.
Doubting, to know better? I lower my head,
 wishing myself a distance from too-worthy
friends & witching Creatures of the Woods.

Untie my canvas, set it on my knees
 to study. Not the leaves, not the
softly moving trees. The face, beautiful
 face, looking at me. I speak to you.

“Why am I here? This special place,
 these people?”
“They are your brothers, Francisco,
 you are dear among them. That’s enough
for now.”
“And who are you? Why can’t I remember?”

She smiles at me so deeply I shudder,
 shudder harder, cry out my despair.
This canvas is all I’ve lost, left behind.

“It’s proof of your worth, Francisco,”
 says Dreamwalker.
“Not that it needs proving,” smiles
 Asoyadonna.

The Creatures now gather around me as
 I tuck away my canvas. Sit severally
  in my lap, trusting, affectionate. Soon
napping. Potent beings, fragile & small
 yet also impossibly old, older then men,
  of this world yet perhaps not native to it?

I wake. They sleep yet. No light yet
 in all the White Woods. I could go.
My canvas & I & my doubts could be
 gone in these pathless White Woods
& not to be discovered again.

I remember her smile in my dream,
 the napping Creatures in my lap.
My friends’ sleeping faces are open, mysterious,
 but not cloaked from me. They are what
they seem. Mine to know better.

My brothers. What this means, why,
 I don’t know. But something, a way
to begin, continue.

I speak aloud, waking them.
“I need more canvases.”
“Francisco?”
“And paints. Brushes too. Let’s find a village
 in these Woods. Or out of them would
be fine too. You mentioned the sea?”

They nod. Begin to laugh. They will find
 me my painter’s tools.

******

xxxvii. #1 House

“In the call of the wind, in the ways of the sea,
you won’t believe . . . what’s out there . . .
tracing the great green pathways.”
—Great Lake Swimmers, “The Great Bear,” 2015.

I didn’t number them when I first
 came here. Didn’t understand each was
gift, & invitation to me. Mine to accept
 each time, each day, each hour, nod
& accept. Learn how to return. Learn
 how to say thank you with my beat & breath.

I’d left my old world as it was leaving
 itself. I had no skills for this green
world, new to me. I didn’t know it could
 adapt, & re-adapt, & outlast men.
Books told me this had happened many
 times. Books didn’t tell me how it would
feel to witness it.

I wasn’t what I became. Still a young man,
 then, still jostling among ancient ideas &
the ones of my day, their shiny lures, their
 pretensions. Science, when it didn’t trick
mysteries to numbers. Mysticism, where it
 acknowledged my dreams & cock & skin color
all in the mix, & the mix itself little divined.
 How monkeys can build cities, burn them down,
half blame the stars in the sky for their
 own violent souls, half try to knot up that
magic lasso to ride them like the engines of angels.

I didn’t bring the right things to these
 White Woods, & too much. I was a city man,
& had stayed till I could deny their
 collapse n’longer. I had to believe that
nobody was coming to help, restore order,
 something. I had a knapsack of books,
clothes, a compass I’d gotten as a boy.
 My reclusive uncle. Its case’s inscription:
“Get out to the green more, Rod. It’s coming.”

I thought someone was living here. It wasn’t
 abandoned, molded over, empty. Maybe
they’re still coming? I had no choice.
 Where I’d left was burning or dead.
Where I’d left I couldn’t return.
 I was tired. I hadn’t slept in awhile.

It’s one big room. The rain is harder.
 It’s dark now. I learn how to make a fire.
A box of wooden matches. Old newspapers.
 Open the flu, let the smoke out. I’d watched
my uncle do it. Seen it on TV.

I brought eggs. I have bacon. Some vegetables.
 Might not see the first two again, awhile.
So on my cold rainy first night in these beautiful
 White Woods, I raise myself up a good omelette.
Still thinking the door will crash open, &
 a voice, maybe a gun. “Whose fire in my house?”

The table’s where I get my mix together,
 found the pans. The fireplace where it
bubbles & cooks. The old armchair where
 I eat, savoring every chew like I hadn’t
when the market was still a block away,
 open all night.

The bed where I crawl to when I’ve eaten,
 breathed, written most of these lines, &
under the comforter, a weird kind of quilt,
 patches all shapes & colors. Chunks of fabric
here & there, like a language in this, a story?
 song? Orange yarn, maple leaves,
small pine cones, pages from old books soaked,
 & dried, & soaked again, till a pulp,
a grain, fibers.

I slept that first night, supped, dry,
 safe feeling by no logic of the city or
the life I’d known. And no promise
 I hadn’t just gotten lucky once. I wasn’t
my uncle. I’d been chased out to the green.
 I wasn’t happy. I missed the city, its songs,
its stories.

I missed my lost chance to become a man
 in the city, by its will, by its rites.
The rain harder & this old shack held dry,
 yet swayed with all these Woods. I was so lost.

******

xxxviii. Two Armchairs

[Their village gone, destroyed? A group of people
 travel together, embody their lost home:
trinkets, memories, seeds. Travel a flat featureless
 landscape along a wide dirty road. Every fortnight
or so, exhausted, more hungry over time,
 they boil water for a tea that allows them
to cluster dream, & live anew in their lost home,
 touch & remember its many details.]

Wha. What? I wake in this strange bed
 under its half-bestial quilt. That . . . that.
Me & my ideas for film, plays, books.
 They just came to me. I’m riding a bus
home, along a long avenue, slow, rush hour,
 sense of futility, hard to breathe.
Then, something & not so hard. An image.
 An old woman in a village, its center green,
she shambles half-dead up to a microphone,
 click-clicks, noise-noises, hmmmmmm—

But here, now. I didn’t know what I was
 then, & that’s all over here. Irrelevant.
I think. Is it? Or do I continue to look?

Conclude: eggs & bacon, vegetables. It won’t last
 & I wouldn’t know where to store it. So I cook
away my easy former life. What I can keep
 has to be keepable here. This isn’t much to go
with, but not nothing. I’ll bring what I can.

Here’s one of the first that made people laugh.
 My brothers. I was the youngest. Too smart
to be coddled. I made up for being younger by
 reading everything in sight, daring us to places
in the city we oughtn’t.

Anyway, we were caught. Mean-looking cop.
 Construction site. One sniff told me girls
were in that shack. The cop’s eyes were
 hazy like pills. My brothers were just scared.

“Daffy Duck & Bugs Bunny are in a picture frame
 we enter, all of us,” I say, as the cop
has us cornered against a high fence.
 He twitches confused to my words.
“We’re walking along this desert road,
 hoping for a ride. Bugs says it will take hours
to get one but then a wagon appears &
 Crash!” I clap my hands & the cop backs
off just a step. “There are onion rings
 everywhere & run at him all at once! Now!”

Like that. He sort of caught of anyway
 though we all hung on while he swung.
Then a voice, a girlish voice, called for him
 so sweetly & impatiently, we took that
distraction & fled. Laughing. Laughing.

A strange mind. A quick tongue. Reckless.
 What did this add up to? I left home
as my brothers had. Took a job that was
 like a slow poisoning. A windowless office
all day, numbers & letters & symbols on
 the walls, ceiling, floor, the desks, my
hands, you could only catch what they
 were slyly, half-glances, quick. My wit
won me the job but these figures were
 just for those who thought they could escape
what was happening to the world. Hide
 deep or far enough away.

One day I simply walked past that building
 & didn’t stop. I still see the numbers &
letters & symbols on the back of my hands
 sometimes. Maybe they have some secret
worth. Maybe they like me. Maybe
 I can use them here?

“Tell us another, Roddy,”
“What?”
“Come on!” They laughed at me, loved me
 like brothers do. I was staying in an empty
building across some railroad tracks. Freight
 ran by twice a day.

Came when I signaled, didn’t know why
 I’d quit. “When they found her in the
large shower, she was in a silver & blue
 sweat-jacket, nothing else. Her two friends
didn’t know what had happened to her,
 or what she had in her pockets.

“Go on, Roddy!”
“Come on!”
“What?”
“Is there more?”
“Not of that one.”
They laugh & pull hard on their tall boys.
I love them. I tell another.

“There is a third world market, stalls,
 animals. One man seems to be covered
in roots, vines, spiders. Unperturbed.
 He stays at the entrance to a whole other
world down below.”
“What kind of world?”
“It’s a hotel for the very rich, there’s a great
 staircase in the center of the lobby. Men
in tuxedoes, women in shiny low-cut dresses,
 servants. They bring everyone little dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“Little ones.”
“Roddy!”

Writing these down here, like I never had,
 I’m crying a little. My brothers are back
there, if at all.

Food’s gone. I take a chance & wash
 the dishes with some of my own water.
Just in case. I liked doing the dishes at home.
 The hot water. Soapy sponge. Visible love.

It’s morning. I can’t stay. It will feel like
 hiding & eventually I’ll starve of fear &
stupidity.

So I pack up & walk outside. Late summer,
 even in these Woods. Sniff. Clean. Lots more than that,
but clean is good. City hadn’t smelled clean
 in a long time. I don’t know which way
to go, maybe that’s good too. Not know. Go slow.

My boots are new, tight, be wishing for
 my old sneakers till they break in.
Waterproof, these, & thick socks I’ll have
 to clean. I guessed about these but
OK. The books I kept. The clothes. The compass.
 At least the boots & socks.

Close the wooden door & on my way . . . somewhere.
 I don’t know why but I don’t mark my path
away. Acute memory? Not returning? Dunno.
 Maybe I need to figure these Woods out better
than one small shack. Maybe I don’t want
 to confess how scared & lost I am.

There is bird-noise, I can’t say which ones.
 Telling of my intrusion? Maybe. I am.
I hope I’ll make fewer headlines in time.
 There are no paths here. None.

Try to remember another one. My brothers
 came less often to my squat. Maybe
I signaled them less often. I don’t know.
 Maybe my stories turned dark, living outside
the city but for the freights. They don’t
 laugh. I guess I’m not trying.

“It’s a story you’ve heard before.”
“That’s OK, Roddy.”
“We love the old ones, man.”
“The great house on the treeless hill.
 With its attic that opens out to other worlds.”
“Sure! That’s a good one.”
“Tell, Roddy.”
“I’m in its basement, vast corridors &
 rooms. I’m curious, not afraid. There
are filing cabinets along the halls. I open
 some. Nothing at first. Then.”
“What?”
“I find a blue Kool-Aid canteen.”
“Really?”
“Yah. I open it up, & there’s a small canteen
 inside, & a smaller one inside that,
& a smaller one inside that. And inside
 that one, these glowing blue pebbles.
“No shit.”
“I hold them in my hand as I keep walking.
 Endless corridor, till I come to a group of people
sitting in folding chairs, watching a film
 against the wall. Silently watching,
but its just colorful blobs & swirls, &
 low grinding music.”
“Shit, Roddy.”
I come to a room where there are these
 Creatures, mostly little brown & tan bears,
sort of in a heap. I straighten them out.
 Nobody has been in this room in a long time.”
“Creatures?”
“Yah.”
“Creatures, Roddy?”
“Yah.”

Oh, yah, wow. They were spooked at that
 story, left quickly, didn’t finish their tall boys.
That was the last time.

The forest floor is thick & soft with needles,
 there are cones, nuts. I walk & walk.
Drink my water low. Eventually, too soon,
 I tire. Maybe mid-afternoon. No finding
that shack now.

I haven’t seen water either, & that’s
 got me worried more. Keep walking
because stopping now would be terrifying.
 It’s a Woods! Has to have water!

It became like a dream, those hours
 of that afternoon. Knowing it was wrong
but walking off the panic. Walking hard.

Dizzy, tired, staggering, I probably would
 have collapses anywhere, but something.
Someone. Words in my mind. “You were kind
 to us. It’s only a little further.” The little
Creatures? Bears? “It was only a story.
 You were heaped in a pile.”

Here I was, this armchair on this shack’s
 porch. Another shack. A leather bucket of water,
a ladle. I drink & drink, too fast, vomit,
 am OK. This old green armchair holds
me like a fond lover. I sleep.

I dream but it’s a remembering.
 When I left the railroad shack, when
the stench of the city, the noise of
 its disintegration, neared, & neared,
I left, I followed the tracks away,
 from early morning, hours I walked
& all I came to was worse. I came
 to piles of corpses, huge piles, dead or
nearly. Bound together, in some kind
 of plastic.

I wake. Armchair. Bucket of water.
 I’m still exhausted, blurry with terrors
then, now. Talk aloud. Like it will help.

“I start to rouse the bodies, they are alive,
 I push & hit them, get them to roll off
each other, help each other out of the
 plastic, stand. Stagger along behind
me. I sense enemies, near, see a cave,
 maybe a tunnel. I make these crowds
stagger along. Fifty, a hundred? I don’t
 know.”

“I feel like I am them, they are me.
 They are all me. I am the world.”

I pause. Another ladle of water.

“Still think you’re the world, Roddy?”

Oh. Shit. Another armchair. The grocer,
 his all-night market near my apartment.
“You’re here?”
“Do you remember my name?”
“Akbar? Muhammed?”
He laughs. “Fyodor. And no, I’m not here.”
I blink rapidly & he fades a little. I panic.
“Wait!”
“It’s OK. We can talk again. You’ll learn
 better how. For now, close your eyes.”
Fearful he’ll go but, still, I do.

“Listen, Roddy. I tried to tell you what
 was happening. I tried. You didn’t want
to hear me.”
“I’m . . . sorry?”
“You’re still here. You made it out.”
“Yes. I don’t know what I’m doing out here.”
“But you made it. You’re here. How?”
“There were voices. Creatures.”
“Listen close, Roddy. This place is your
 second chance. They like you. They’ll help
when they can. But you have to learn,
 to change. You’re not in the city anymore.”

Fyodor says no more. I open my eyes.
 He’s gone. Dusk is giving way to night.
I sit a long time in this armchair, like
 I am tonight, many times since.

Eventually, the exhaustions of walk & fear
 push me through the door, nobody
is there. Feel my way to the bed, &
 on it a quilt too. Again, objects &
fabrics sewn into it. It’s warm. It’s what
 I have here of familiar, besides
the voices & apparitions. I grip it like
 it will go. I probably cry. I saved nobody.
I kept moving long after the last of them fell again.

******

xxxix. Mailbox House

There’s mail today. It doesn’t happen every time.
I’ve stopped asking who or how. I read them
 slowly, wishing they were me. But nobody
  lives here, like the others. Still, the letters.

The first time, I’d left that other shack &,
 again, not marked my path. I’d slept
 till late afternoon but had to go. This
 wasn’t working. I don’t belong here.

The Woods sloped down, & down. I moved
 uncaring, just to move. Came to the stream
 strangely sudden. Silence of these Woods,
 then this chuckling flow, its glaring gems.

There was a log close to the water but,
 no, twas like a telephone pole. Smooth,
 sheered at both ends. Set down my knapsack,
 sat down with this new, unwanted mystery.

Listened to the stream’s wordless music.
 I had nothing to think forward to,
 & the past didn’t count much here. Something.
 What? Listen. I don’t belong here.

Opened my sack. Pulled out my compass.
 Its arrow spun & spun. What else?
 My books? Useless. But there was one.
 A book I’d kept when our foolish talk
 of marriage, & everything else, ended.

I was so much taller than you, but
 it never felt like that. Nothing about you
 felt less than me. That long green hallway
 to your bedroom, its weird fixtures.

I kept this book, it’s held together by rubber
 bands, no cover. I remember its title:
 Aftermath, by Cosmic Early. Took it,
 with my bag of clothes, toothbrush, that last morning.

It’d sat on your bedside table, unremarked,
 every time I visited, even when I moved in.
 Its cover was a golden labyrinth embedded
 inside a great tree. I remember: Aftermath.

“That’s now,” I say aloud. “Us, my life,
 the world. All of it’s aftermath.”
 Feels nice to talk aloud. Whatever’s
 listening. Whoever. “Aftermath!”

Bend open the book, its old, stiff pages,
 & read from a page: “We carry her from
 the shower back to our room, cover
 her in the big bed we share. Her smile,
 vacant but beautiful: ‘he was advising me what’s
 to come, holding me, murmuring in my hair.’”

Turn to other pages: “In the Woods,
 along train tracks, looking for something,
 a spring day. The ground is moist,
 the others are near, I think, I hope.
 Maybe down to the stream again,
 tinkering with the wires? Who would
 we call out to anyway? Who’s there?”

I close the book, breathing hard,
 looking around. I’m alone, my listeners
 quiet, whatever they are. Stand up,
 stuff the book away, nearly toss
 it in the water. Don’t. It’s what’s left
 of those nights when your sweet crooked
 ass raised high to me, wanting what
 I had, what I was, moaning for me alone.

Cross the stream, climb the hill beyond.
 Climb & climb. I don’t belong here, tis true.
 Here I am. A hill has to end, doesn’t it?
 I climb. Come to the crest. Sit,
 sadly winded for a young man. Breathe,
 relax, take a look from this tall place.

Smoke, or black clouds, or both, over
 the city I left, where it probably is,
 or was, on the horizon. Clench my
 teeth not to cry. Look nearer but all
 Woods to see. This isn’t helping me.

Then I see it, maybe a hundred feet
 downhill from me. Something red, yes,
 a bright, sure red. A freshness about
 this color. Not a feather or something discarded.
 Hurry down the hill, scraping, careening.
 What am I expecting? The black cloud
 still hangs there distant. It’s still all gone.

It’s a mailbox, the rural kind, big & silver,
 shaped like loaf of bread, the handl
 on its side painted bright red. Handle’s down.
 No outgoing mail. I pull open its door
 anyway. There’s a letter inside. I take
 it out, hold it in my hand. Then I notice
 the shack a couple dozen yards away.

I stayed in this shack a long time,
 not overnight like the first two.
 Its bed small, crudely nailed together
 frame. A quilt, like the others, many
 kinds of feathers embedded. Crow.
 Peacock. Robin. I still haven’t identified
 them all. I moved right in. Knapsack,
 unopened letter, me & all.

The letter kept me there. Wanting
 to read it, afraid to. This was as close
 to a human dweller in these Woods
 as I had found. I didn’t open it
 a long while. Used that stream for
 my drink & washing. Slowly ate
 through the granola & jerky in my bag.
 Very slowly. I had little appetite anymore.

The envelope was addressed simply:
 “To Iris.” Bigger than my cover-less
 paperback, heavy stock, tanned
 unevenly in color, as though toasted
 somehow. Hardly sealed. I waited.
 I delayed. Finally, I climbed back
 up the hill, wearing layers of clothes,
 winter coming, watched the sun set,
 the distant black cloud smudging it ugly,
 & waited for the full moon to come.

It contained a single sheet folded
 in half. The handwriting strange, as though
 the writer not used to the chosen tongue.
 Written with a fountain pen, or perhaps
 a quill. Maybe a burnt end of twig,
 in dark dip of blood. I read it aloud,
 hoping this excused my boldness somehow.

“My beloved, This letter will find
 you when I cannot. I hope you are
 still the lively, beautiful rebel I knew.
 On this full moon’s night, I let you go
 & keep you both. Not knowing what world
 you’re really from, or where bound.
 I am only a mortal man. I love you.
 This you know as you depart me.

Roddy is shaking now. There’s a little more.
 He again reads aloud. No choice.
 “You will try again & again to save
 this world. You will choose again &
 again to let go of all what & who
 you love. I am not the first. I am another.”

He stops reading. He, that is I,
 stopped reading the letter. He put
 it back in its envelope. Still unfinished.

He returned to the shack, fell asleep
 fast & hard in the bed, right on
 the feathered-up quilt. Letter on
 the floor. He, that is I, didn’t leave
 that bed a long time. I didn’t understand
 where I was, that these White Woods
 tells those its loves, those hurting & lost &
 in great need. I thought I was alone.

A dream. A powerful dream. In it,
 time flattened, time diminished, time shrunk.
 As though I cupped my hands to collect
 water in the rain, & then watched it
 evaporate in the sun thereafter.
 There were Creatures all around me.
 Always have been, but they were
 plain with me, in my bed, sniffing, close.

Urging me my task, the sheet of paper
 before me, on the bed, the quill &
 jar of ink beside me. Nudged & nudged
 me to write. I watched my hand
 dip quill in jar. I watched my hand
 begin to write. My hand was small
 & elegant, a girl’s or woman’s, not
 mine own. I wrote slow & fast.

“My Beloved in return, I’ve come
 here to rest, to heal. I need this body
 a little longer still. I am still damp
 with your kisses, impressed by your caress.
 You are flesh among my flesh,
 you are bones among my bones,
 your heart my blood’s rhythm,
 your breath my chest’s rise & fall.

“There’s more to know than our love,
 than what I am, where from,
 where bound. Stranger strengths
 bide this world, & we are like lovely
 notes among their long, long tunes.

“Even now, there is a dear, confused
 young man writing this letter from me
 to you. He is shocked to see these
 words appearing on this page, writing
 deep in his dreams. He doesn’t
 understand himself, dreams, these
 wonderful White Woods, or the world
 as a whole. He sees only his old
 burning home & thinks his life gone.

“But we know more than this, my
 Beloved, you & I both do. We may
 never touch again, but he will
 be our new way to touch, & in return
 we will give him this gift to those
 he remembers & loves as well.
 Our love will go on, Beloved, as love
 always goes on.
                                    Yours ever,
                                    Iris”

I watch my hands that are hers
 fold this letter into its envelope
 & we leave the bed & the hut
 itself, walking to the mailbox,
 placing the envelope within,
 addressed I do not recall, sealed
 with her soft lips on my face,
 & I pull the handle on the mailbox
 up, a signal for whatever postman
 runs this strange route. The Creatures
 have followed after me, but when
 the letter business is done, handle
 pulled, they dispense to their homes,
 or holes, or wherever Creatures
 of the Dream go when they go.

Awake. Morning. Fall out of the bed
 hurrying to the mailbox to see.
 Nothing. Handle is down, door closed.
 Open. Tis empty.

Does Roddy believe it didn’t happen?
 No, Roddy knows it does. I know
 like my usual soft, clumsy city boy
 hands. Return to the hut,
 look around, find a lantern,
 light that up. A bed. A table
 & chair. Woodstove, some pans hung
 on the wall. There. A small desk.
 Under clothes & extra blankets &
 what-not.

One drawer. No, two. One within
 the other. Paper, still, color of
 burnt toast. Envelopes the same.
 Small jar of ink. Quill? Pen?
 None. I think. Think.

The quilt. Sit on the bed with it
 in my lap. Very carefully slide
 a crow’s feather from its pattern.
 Will return it each time I’m done.
 Done doing this strange deed.

Up on that hill, wait till another full
 moon, I write the letter most pressing
 from my heart. To my brothers.

It’s short. I don’t know what words,
 or many. “I’m OK. I’m safe.
 I hope you are. Maybe I’m where
 I was always coming, maybe I’ll
 find what I am, what the best
 of me meant, laughing with you all
 those years. Maybe. I don’t know.

“I love you always. Be safe.
 Thank you.
                        Yours ever,
                        Roddy.”

Letter brought to the mail box, handle
 raised. Checked the next day, &
 of course it was gone. I’ve kept the deal
 with Iris & her beloved. Read them,
 write them, mail them. The dreams
 tell me no more than this. The Creatures
 not a word either, of course.

Maybe I do belong here, as I told
 my brothers. When I climb the hill,
 I notice the distant black cloud
 is pretty much gone. Whatever
 that means. Whatever Iris is.
 Whatever her Beloved is. Whatever the world
 is. Whatever I am.

******

xl. Narrow Ways

Knowing there are places in these
 White Woods I can go, can find,
& there are strange Creatures here,
 perhaps to my side, I wake up
less suffocating to my straits.

I’m alive, I’m free of the city, its corpse
 I could not help. The helplessness
I felt for so long. I wake up &
 tie my boots, shoulder my knapsack,
move on. I’m let to be here, for now,
 maybe my smarts can seal it for them.

Little things, very little, but me starting.
 I step lighter on my path, among
what comes rather than through. No paths
 to mine eye but maybe to others?
I have to learn how to learn here.
 My city tongue I keep for sentiment,
but another kind here. Five senses.
 Ten fingers. Something in the gut,
something in dreams. I know nothing. Begin.

I think it will be a long day, taking
 my small steps to learn, when over
a small hill & a look down there’s
 another shack. I move closer to
examine, ready to run, surrender.
 I can’t fight much so little option.

I walk around it. A tall narrow
 door. One. No windows. Spooky?
Maybe. How to tell? “Go inside, Roddy,”
 I say aloud, for me & whoever around.
Nobody tells me to stop. I leave my knapsack
 outside. A whim. My gut. Still tuning in.

Squeeze in. Push, pull, push, arrive.
 It’s dark. In the roof a small circular
cut lets in a fist-thick beam of light.
 The place is bare. Empty. I’m still not
sure there’s not a why.

In the corner. Folded purposefully,
 another of those quilts. I pick it up,
hold it in my arms. Purs. Purs? I nod.
 Purs.

It’s a tall cabin, tall & narrow. Listen.
 Listen slower. “Sit, Roddy, in the beam,” I whisper.

I sit cross-legged on the floor with
 my purring quilt, in the beam.
My head down, nestling my friend,
 feeling warmth. Breathe slower.
Feel my blood & bones drink the heat &
 the light offered. Feeding me.
The world tender to me when I let it so.

Gut says look up. Now. Eyes closed.
 Not enough. “Eyes open,” I whisper,
going blind a moment. Then adjusting,
 by my body, by my smarts. The world
doesn’t need to burn my eyes for sport
 or food. I look up but slant, there.

I stay as I am for hours, until
 the shaft disperses to passing
daylight, until my friend seems inert.
 I study the furs woven into it,
her, him. Nothing killed to do this.
 Sheddings, shavings. I hold this friend
longer anyway, giving some, giving more.

Eventually, stand. Put my friend
 well-folded into that corner again.
Depart the doorway but it’s no impediment,
 just a sliding move & shift between us,
easy, loving, “thank you, thank you.”

My knapsack waits & I pick it up.
 Make to move but don’t. Evening
air is cooling these White Woods.
 Others watching me. I’m watching me
too. How do I do enough? How do
 I meet these gifts I am being given
with sweet good in return? Where
 is my sweet good, my shaft of light
to salve as I have been? Where is
 my purring heart? How do I become
what love is greening my heart?
 How do I learn to bloom here?

******

xli. Modern

Wake suddenly. Again. I’m getting less
 tired, more awake, longer. My body
adjusting to constant, subtler awareness.
 The danger is not paying attention.

I’m in a big bed in a dark, big room.
 A red-fringed floor lamp in the corner.
Dark clothes bureau. Long wall mirror.
 Heavy curtained windows. A woman
lived here. Iris? I wonder.

She lived with him here, as I lived
 with you. You would have liked this quilt
I am under, it jingles quietly with woven
 stones & coins.

It’s raining. Hard. These White Woods
 comforting into itself, drinking, dreaming.
I am let to think of you, the rain draining
 me within to you. How the exhaustion
I am recovering from is letting you go.

You were older than me, a teacher,
 a painter, a singer. I wore bright eyes,
read the books you said, dreamed I had
 something but unschooled cock to give you.

Your house was big, like this one,
 unseen around me. Filled it with
flowers, music. Your many lusting students,
 your fellow artists. Why is it all
so vague now but your moan as
 I fucked you, “make it hurt, make it new,
make me feel, make me feel.”

Of course I came home early & another
 with you. Of course you invited me
in. “We share what we have, what
 we are, Roddy, or the world lessens,
like it has.” Of course I tried for you.
 A rigid cock in my mouth, I thought
of your moaning & sucked the cum
 raw from it. Your turn, found I had none.

Lying here now, that dramatic year
 far & gone, I remember what you
were. What you said. What I
 couldn’t hear then over the shout
of my cock to fuck you, fuck you, fuck you now.

You brought me out to the great garden
 behind your house. Was it your house?
Were those visitors or did they live
 there too? I never knew the size
of it. I wonder now more than remember.

The garden. It was vast. Miles of
 wild blooming freedom, more than
I’d ever seen. Green in a graying
 human world.

“How?”
“How all this?”
“Yes. How?”
“A White Tiger. A White Bunny. An imp.
 Many others.”

I could not reck your words but you
 said more. “You’ll see them again,
Roddy. You can’t imagine it now,
 in this moment. All you can see
is my good breasts in my low cut
 blouse. Dressed for you? No, I wasn’t.
But were we sniffing each other already
 that first day you came to me
at the Pensionne? Yes. I kept talking
 for you to listen later. Now.

“I took you to my bed then because
 you were destined to be long alone
in these White Woods. You had to feel as
 a man tender to another, kissing her,
sharing her power, potent, helpless,
 can you hear me now, Roddy?”

“I can,” I speak eyes closed into
 the darkness.
“Do you feel me again like that first
 afternoon in the garden?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel my body near years?”
“Yes.”
“Excited again?”
“Yes.”
“Look beyond me. Look where I am pointing.”
I look. Miles & miles of blooms.
“Look.”
In the far distance, hardly distinguishable
 among blooms, there he is. Black stripes
on white fur. Ocean blue eyes. A White
 Tiger. Gazing toward me like I’m something
worth the seeing. Like I could be a friend.

“Look there, Roddy!”

In & out of the wild colorous blooms
 hops, great hops, a White Bunny,
 & when I look below the levels
 of the blooms, as I didn’t then,
as I do now, what but a tiny
 cackling thing, black & white panda
bear the size of a thumb print, one
 of her, then none, then many?

“Do you still feel me, Roddy?”
“Yes.”
“My body? My want for you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand me better now?
 Do you forgive?”

A young man doesn’t forget how
 that first kiss tasted, for all the years
wanting it. How her blouse comes off,
 nervous, smiling, realizing something
in him worth wanting to, that everyone
 wants, everyone longs.

“Everything, Roddy. Not just men & women.
 One plus one sums to one.”

I am crying, long & loud in this strange
 bed, under this strange cover. Jingling &
shivering, crying. What other choices
 could I have made? The sweat on
your eyelashes. Your laughter. Your breathing.
 I felt borne by the universe to spend
into you, & again, & again.

The rain’s stopped. It’s still dark.
 I stand, naked. How did I come to this
house? Leave the bedroom, find it at
 the top of the long wooden stairs. Living room
with fireplace & framed pictures. Kitchen
 with a thousand knives & pans.

Bookcases still heavy with leather volumes.
A phonograph in an ornate case.
A guitar in a corner. A small piano, covered.

Not the Pensionne, no. And nobody
 here either. Left for me? I don’t know?
Finally, I stop outsidge.

My knapsack is on the front path
 to this house. My clothes tangled &
unruly upon it. It’s like I found this place
 in a fever, stripped wildly, hurled to it.

The morning comes as I dress. As I
 remember no more. As I sit on
the front door’s stone step, I pull out my
 book from you. Aftermath by Cosmic Early.

Close my eyes. Listen to what you said
 of him, as I was undressing you,
as I was roaming your body for how
 my touch could heat you blind,
you were talking, talking.

“He was my first lover, Roddy.
 He gave me this book that I’m giving
you. The green’s coming, Roddy.”
 Your words mixing with the moans
 I cause of you. So I could too.

Hold the book in my hands, listen,
 watch how the light creeps
in among the branches & leavers.
 I suppose I don’t notice the Creatures
at first. The White Bunny, her fiercely
 intelligent, kind eyes. A small grey
hedgehog close to her side. And nibbling
 at my bare angle, the tiny pandy bear.
Through some trees, there! That White
 Tiger. Yes!

I don’t confuse their small or quiet
 for timid or weak. They live in these
White Woods. They are welcoming me,
 the White Bunny nudging herself into
my lap, the imp gnawing my palm,
 & into my grasp too. The hedgehog looks
at me cautiously, nears. The White Tiger
 still at a distance, watching how
I am with his friends.

I suppose we all nap together awhile.
 My knapsack a pillow, my arms
their rest. I wake later morning,
 my grasp empty, the Woods noisier
than I’ve known so far. Is this how
 a man returns to the world,
his hands out, to surrender, to learn,
 the growls, the twitters, the buzzes
closer to him than before, letting him in,
 letting a little more.

******

xlii. Tribute

Along the morning I find I am limping
 a little, new boots still, & a branch
long enough to lean against. I’ll keep
this cane years after that limp, these boots
 long sweet skin to my bones.

There is a sort of chalky rock I notice,
 draws well on tree bark, on trunks.
Finally I begin to mark my path
 along. It is my method until I learn
the Hmmmmmm, until the Creatures
 teach me better to know.

They are nearer than before,
 moving soundlessly aside me,
a flash of brown fur, a stray whisker,
 a nose raised & sniffing. I come
to no further human dwelling for
 days. Yet they guard me, these Creatures
of the Woods. Come nightfall there
 will be clearings with plenty of
dry wood for fire, piles of leaves
 for a bed. Deep in sleep many
will nuzzle into my arms, sweet music
 into my dreams.

I learn the foods of the Woods by
 experiment, by what feeds me,
by what roars my guts sick & weeping.
 I learn, by color, by scent, by taste.
By the shade of its leaves, the way
 it clusters by trunk or stream.

I learn how to eat less & less, &
 my body both withers & strengthens.
Water I still need. Sometimes I am
 slow to leave a stream, aching
with thoughts of thirsts to come.

I keep along. Wondering of those places
 I’d stayed out here. So many &
now none?

Maybe I hallucinate at times. I see
 faces ahead of me. You, my teacher,
my long lost lover, holding out your hand,
 laughing, “you’re free, Roddy! Free!
You can live & die happy out here!”
 I run for you, run hard, my stick
keeping me from my own fool missteps
 at times, but never catch you.
Never once.

I think of my brothers, how far I’ve
 gone from them. Just their faces
as I pass hungry again into sleep.

“What happens next, Roddy?”
“Yah, what’s next?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.” I pass out,
 crying. I’m sorry.

I don’t have long left when I come
 over the grassy hill, see the farmhouse
down below. Fields for plowing. Barns
 falling down in the distance. White Woods
at more a distance here though still
 visible. But something here keeps
them away. I’m starving. I approach.

Three steps up to the house’s side
 door, middle step missing. Push in door
& come to a madly cluttered kitchen.
 Like someone left in a hurry, but decades
ago somehow. My hunger gone, I push
 through the door to the next room.

Mirrors. On the wall, on the ceiling,
 below my feet. I am shown in a
thousand guises, very old, infant
 young, like I was some man’s bride,
like I was the Beast who would consume
 them together. Balance thrown,
dizzy, I growl, I cry, I push through.

Come to a different room. A library
 of sorts. There is a fireplace. Armchair.
Walls of books. A writing desk. A closed
 journal.

I open its thick dusty cover to its
 title page. “Tribute.” Turn its pages,
wondering. Hopeful?

Sheets of figures. Columns of them,
 rows of them. Sometimes angular lists
of them. Sometimes displayed like
 a checkerboard. Page after page.
Splotches of numbers. Bleeds of symbols.
 Like my own hands. They glow dim &
then brighter.

Push to its last page. These words:
 “Transcribed the divine word.”

I lift the book & carry it with me
 to the armchair. Holding it like
a pillow, or a Creature, but infinite
 sadder, I rock gently into sleep.

Long times after, I can’t say how long,
I come to waking in the darkness.
Soft hands are taking the book from
 my grasp, returning it to the desk.
Feeding me bits of fruit & nuts from
 a dimly perceived bag. A water sack
to my lips. No words. I keep my eyes
 shut mostly. If a dream, I accept.

“Why am I here? Did I come here
 to perish & fail?”
“No, Roddy,” the voice strange, my teacher’s,
 my brothers? A Creature’s at last?
“How do I endure?”
“They are here to help you, Roddy.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re here. They are your hope.
 You are theirs. That’s how the world saves.”

A lingering breath near me, & gone.
I feel fed, wonder how. Stand, move
 clumsily back, through the darkened room
of mirrors, the cluttered kitchen.
 The rooms are exhaling me now,
for now. Down the steps, avoid
 the missing one.

My knapsack on the grass. A full moon
 upon all. A miracle spread of stars
sings wide & long the sky. I breathe in
 & breathe out. Again, & again.

Make toward the distant White Woods.
 Creatures joining me as I go.
White Bunny. Hedgehog. Little imp,
 cackling. Brown bears. Small giraffes.
Shiny-eyed fox & leopard & owl &
 unicorn. And we are not silent.

It catches in my throat, even before
 I hear it, the subtle, silvery music
of these White Woods I’d known,
 & not known, before. But I pick up
on it now, croaking a little but then more,
 more. It is like the Hmmming I will
know so much better but, even this
 first night, it tickles & kisses inside
my blood & bones, leads into my heart
 & lungs, & pushes out my lips, pushes
& pushes until I let a little & then much more.

******

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