xliii. Mind is Will

Mind is Will. That’s what the Iterates
 taught me. Or maybe what I learned
from them. They are proof that all
 the boundaries I believed in were self-
imposed. Society-imposed. A faith
 that little is possible, & thus little
should be permissible. Beat the world
 back over & over, & hold death off
like a teasing gift. Suffer, & smile, & again.

Mind is Will. I had to learn how to live
 alone, but amongst many others.
The Creatures can talk but they
 rarely do. We nap together, we often
hmmmmmm, & some full moons we howl
 like the dark heart of ever’s bursting.

So I talk. I come to the armchairs
 in my ragged circuit of shacks,
& I sit, & I drink some water from
 the leather bucket, & I sniff
the seedsy air of another spring come,
 & I breathe, deep & slow, & I wait.

The White Bunny knows armchair means
 talk. She approves, if not too often.
She is my . . . Tender . . . is the closest word
 in their usually wordless tongue. Hops
up to me, fearless, awaits my hands,
 sniffs them twice, no matter how well
known, sniffs twice, & lets me seat her
 in my lap.

I let her relax. Still sniffing. But the day
 is hardly breezy, is calm, is dreamy.
These Creatures can flee at a moment,
 from who or what I never know,
never see, but this morning is calm,
 she’ll listen.

“I was watching an ant on a bus
 once,” I say softly. “I was sitting
near the rear exit door, & there it
 was on the floor. Racing around
in wild patterns. Likely to be crunched
 in an instant if anyone from the
back got off.” She looks up at me
 sharply. I open my mouth so she
can peer in. Wherefrom the words.
 She relaxes.

“Under the door was a shaft of light,
 a visible break, a place to escape.
Did it feel the wind blow in from
 outside? Why did it keep racing
crazily around the area near the door?
 What was it thinking to do? It would get
nearer that crack in the door, then
 crazy patterns away”

Her fur is soft, a sort of glowing
 off-white. Long furry ears. A pale pink ribbon
around her neck. A gift? I’ve noticed
 other Creatures with these little trinkets,
bows, bracelets, such. They are not
 simple animals. They are not men.

I talk. “I wanted it to escape out
 the door, even as I realized it had
already been taken miles & miles
 from its home. I wanted it to make it
anyway. And it did. Found that crack
 & disappeared into it. But came back.
But left again & it was gone. Maybe
 blown off the bus. I knew it had
a chance now, whatever chance
 that ants had.”

She’s dozing in my lap, which always
 seems to inspire others. Two brown-
spotted giraffes, no bigger than her,
 that is, halfway to my knee, come
 & shyly wish to lap. I know others are
nearby. Listening. I wish I was wiser
 & funnier than I am.

“And I felt like I was that ant,
 running my crazy patterns in ways
that mean little, liable to be stepped
 on any moment if I didn’t happen
to find the shaft, the crack in the door,
 out.”

I stop. “And here I am.”
“And here you are.”

Oh. Fyodor. Small, crooked man,
 mostly bald but a thick thick moustache.
Heavy dark-blue deli apron over a tie &
 clean white shirt. Black trousers &
leather shoes. Not here. Here.

“I am. Are you?”
He laughs. So much he won’t tell me.
 Some he will.

“How is it back there?”
“Why do you ask, Roddy?”
“My brothers. Everyone.”
“The worst is over. There’s not much to take.
 What’s left isn’t stored centrally anymore.
The weak are being trained to strength. Or.”
“Or.”
“Why do you ask, Roddy?”
“Or?”
“They’re let to die. Painlessly as possible.”

Is this what I imagine? Talking to an
 hallucination of the market man?
Thinking I’m holding a sentient White Bunny
 in my hands?

“Roddy. You made it out. You’re valuable.
 You can’t go back. You have to survive.”
“Why?”
“You’ll be needed.”
“When? Why? By who?”

Fyodor nods to the White Bunny. “They
 choose their laps carefully. You’re not
alone, Roddy. They will help you.”
 “And you?”
He’s silent, head bent, studying his rude fingers.

“I wish I could have prepared you better
 for this.”
“Are you a spectre? A figment?”
“No. I’m as present right now as you &
 her.”
“Right now?”
“One, none, many, Roddy.”
“One, none, many?”

Then he cackles, strangely. “Mind is Will.”

I back off the next time I see him.
I hmmmmmm, the White Bunny joins in,
 of course, & those watching from
the nearby shadows, trees, leaves,
 bushes. Fyodor smiles, listens, eyes
closed, does not join in.

The White Bunny sudden hops off my lap,
 & away without a glance. Her way.
I feel a quiet elation. She leaves
 when I’m safe to leave. I know
I’m OK when she wordless goes.
 The giraffes, or whoever else happens
to be lapping, leave too, by their
 own whim.

I sit into the evening, the darkness
 wrapping in & around & throughout
these White Woods, a peacefulness
 I feel but do not know.

Mind is Will. It’s why Iterates like Fyodor
 can be here & elsewhere both. One, none,
many. It’s how Iris shares my dreams to
 write her letters. Wherever, whatever
she is. It explains the imp I see, then two,
 then many, a cackling hoard of them,
then two, one, none. “Stranger strengths
 bide this world,” Iris wrote, my dream,
our dream, my hand, our hand. “And we
 are like lovely notes among their long,
long tunes.”

More from armchair through unpainted
 wooden door into shack. There are candles
I’ve left here. I don’t light them. Just
 into the bed, under its quilt, take up
with my remaining wakefulness its text.

Yes, each quilt is a text, telling a part
 of some great Myth of Things.
It was this quilt taught me of
 the Iterates, how to think of them.

Eyes closed, breathing shallow, I’d
 finger through, inch by inch, of the
quilt, trying to teach myself its
 length & breadth, the stones,
the coins, the shells. Memories
 by fingertips. But I couldn’t.
They would change. Increase &
 decrease in number. Each one
identical & distinct from its others.
 The coins, the stones. Iterations,
the word the darkness told me,
 I don’t know. I called them
the Iterates.

A survival move, from far in space
 & forgotten time. A way to know,
multiply. Never be an ant lost from its nest.
 Far from nest, in nest, both.

Could I be me, here in this bed, &
 in the other shacks too, one, none,
many? I was still learning
 how high the boundaries that
weren’t really there. I was
 still learning of life as possibilities,
not limits. Still shitting out the many
 songs celebrating, mourning those limits.

I let go my fingerings & simply lie still
 in the close darkness, the White Woods
soundless, waiting? I don’t know.

I try again, reaching, letting, allowing.
 Denying denials, what could be,
what mystery, what else. Slow my breathing,
 relax. If not this time, another.

Then, something, a stir, a vague warmth.
 Near my hands. I open them, palms
up. Warmth. The thought of flesh, blood,
 & bone, if not the fact. I open my eyes,
to let off that pressure. See nothing,
 feel the lightest hairs on your wrist.

Holding you lightest, like a snowflake,
 a shy Creature’s glance. Your wrist
in my grasp. You are here, in this
 strange place, these strange White Woods,
my beloved home. I am there, there
 is soft music, you are alone, but not
lonely. No surprise, you do not startle.
 I iterate &, letting go, smile. Mind is Will.
Mind is possible. Mind is mystery. I’ll keep going.

******

xliv. Humid

Humid. The earth thirsts me. The earth
 thirsts everything. I am some of her
flesh. Her? Him? You? Me? Us.

As long as I live, think, feel, us.
 I depend on you. I affect you.
My kind has done poorly by you.

There were always those who tried better.
I wasn’t one of them. I was grateful for you
 but not vigilant. Vigilance against me
  is tiring, defeating. Who’s in charge for appeal?

The ones with the guns & the good arguments.
 Call them kings, presidents, führers,
priests, rock stars, prophets, whatever.
 Most will hoard the green like they hoard
the women & the water, but little more.

So I didn’t follow. I was lazy. No fanatic’s claw.
 I followed lace skirts & thought my power
to undress was power to know feeling,
 cause & shape it as I willed.

But you know, earth, that men join & rend
 flesh like shadows play cave walls.

We best thirst when we then drink
 together. The smoking city I left behind
shows we never learned.

I come to this tall, narrow, empty shack
 to let go. Test the weight of each of my
memories. Hold my purring friend,
 the quilt who keeps here, neat in the corner.

My teacher never asked if I’d loved
 anyone else, if anyone else had touched
me as she did. And there was a girl.
 We read books together, talked about
  our dreams, tried telepathy with plants,
 with each other. Tried kissing softly.

She was slender, blonde, purple eyes,
 listened to music with those eyes closed,
didn’t dance, liked to sway.
 Like to sway with me, smiling,
my arms around her, hands twined
 around her waist. Her wrists in my grasp.

Maybe you noticed her & didn’t care,
 knew her gaze could charm mine eyes
but you could singe my mind &
 sate my cock. Is it so pretty to say?

Or did you offer yourself for real
 that night? Was yours a real body
you would share with me? Was it me
 who held back, wouldn’t give to you,
satisfy you? Turned away your kiss’s
 thirst, your flesh’s dearest wish?
No longer to be your boy when I could be her man?

I’ve tried this before her. To let you go.
 I’ve knelt naked in the brilliant shaft
of light upon me. I’ve stroked my cock
 till I’d fuck you over & over & over,
saying, “I’m sorry, forgive me, I’m sorry,
 forgive me.” The wood floors stained
with my savage, sad cum.

It hung about me. The wish that I’d fucked
 you, then or later. Returned to you,
tutored & taught in women’s moans,
 & claimed you. As though my right.
As though I’d replied that night when
 you’d said, “I love you, Roddy,” & undressed
smiling before me. I kept moving.
 Thought I’d forgot you. Like it hadn’t mattered.

This time my water sack isn’t near.
 This time I stay when the headache,
the dizziness. This time I hold my
 purring friend into a hard, panting
unconsciousness.

The smell of salt. The . . . sea? Open
 my eyes, a boat. A long boat,
like used by many fishermen,
 out deep. I’m alone in it. Above
me a great wave, a hundred feet
 high? More? It’s not moving, frozen, or
moving so slowly I can feel single
 drops falling slowing on me. Like time
has slowed, seconds for decades.

There is a low hmmming here I can’t
 deduce. And the drops I catch
them are dry, salt, almost no water.
 The tension of waiting makes me
want to scream. “Just drown me!
 Drown me! Just drown me!” I scream.

“Not today, son,” he speaks, roughly, like an animal
 forming men’s words. Everything goes red
& I am both in the boat & held close on the shack’s
 floor, by a strange man. Long red straw
hat, feathery red whiskers, mashed nose.
 Wears a long overcoat, tall old boots,
all red-tinged. Boat & wave recede.

He’s making m drink, little sips of
 water, turning my head aside when
I vomit, more sips of water. Not another
 word. The convulsions subside. He feeds me
bits of fruits & nuts. More vomit but
 eventually I eat & keep. Hours go.

It’s dark. “I tried to let go,” I whisper
 hoarsely. He speaks again, & finally:
“Nothing lets go, Roddy. There is only
 one flesh. One world. One flesh.”
After that, I sleep. Wake at dawn,
 my quilt friend in my arms,
though inert.

Fold my friend & tucked back into
 the corner. Step outside. It’s cool.
The earth’s thirst has receded some.
 Pull clothes from my knapsack. Sips
from my water sack. Someone in
 these Woods saved my life. Knew my name,
saved my life.

It was when you swayed with me,
 eyes closed, smiling, wrists clasped.
We were one flesh then. The world
 we’d tried talking to was listening,
all around us, remembering, reminding
 me these years later.

“I love you too,” I say aloud, finally,
 in front of that tall shack, in these
strange wondrous Woods. Close my eyes,
 hands to the morning sky. My great
wave crashes upon me, drenches me
 until I am laughing, laughing into your
long remembered purple eyes. Open mine
 eyes too. Sway, swish, sway. Hmmmmmm.
Now I can share this drink with all that thirsts.

******

xlv. The Waterfall

The waterfall is where I leave my name &
 history behind. The soft leathery hat I found
the first time I came there. The quilt from
 #1 House I was wearing on my shoulders,
that first time.

I’d woke under that quilt, one of many mornings
 in that one-rooms shack. The dim forms of
armchair, table, fireplace. Felt the maple leaves,
 chunks of yarn, pine cones, pulped paper in my gentle
fingertips. These were what I knew, treasured.

Yet I could not tell their part of the story,
 the Myth I was trying to learn. Sometimes
I would hmmm, just to see if anything caught.

This time it did. I heard something in my hmmming
 that was other, someone, something. I tried hmmming
higher, slower, to invite, to lure, but still distant,
 untrusting me?

No, beckoning. Me go there. Wherever there was.
 It was barely dawn but I got up, kept
my quilt on, no shoes, no knapsack.

I followed like a waking dream, still hmmming
 & following by harmony. These moments didn’t
happen often but it’s like I would trip them,
 intentionally or no, & nothing to do but
follow, learn, hope. Pay attention.

The White Woods have secret paths
 only opened sometimes. For purpose.
I had not known this one before, following
 it downhill, many tall tall pine trees,
quiet, they were not hmmming with me.

Eventually the trees thinned out to
 a rocky walk, now climbing, now noise
in the distance, a shimmering in the air,
 a glowing vagueness until it’s like
I step through a gauzy sheet & there
 it is before me.

A great, great waterfall. I’m looking up
 from a ledge near its base. It seems
hundreds of feet above me. Falling like
the mightiest power in the world. Yet
cognizant of me. How? How? This wet,
 titanic power had drawn me to it,
& was aware that I had come.

I stand for a long while, watching,
 feeling, forgetting to hmmm, forgetting
nearly everything. Then I look down &
 there is the soft leathery hat. Flung
from the waters? I don’t know. I don’t know
 how to know. But I pick it up &
put it on me, like a gift, feel anew
 the warm quilt I’ve kept on as
I came out here. This is safe. But more.

I begin to iterate along that rocky ledge.
 One to see the mighty cascade of water.
One to hear its rocky music, new my hmmm with it.
 One to smell—what?—cherry blossoms
near? Is that possible?
 One to taste—how?—this waterfall knows
I am flesh, feeds me something good,
 not water, not solid, like a kind of mead.
One to touch, water is not solid & yet
 it seems nearly to have fingers to grasp
my arms, stroke my face.
 One for beat, the heart in my chest
& the one in this Beast, for I feel it has
 one too & therefore must live somehow.
One for breath, because this Beast of a
 waterfall feels mine too quick &, touching
me, holding me, slows my breath. Once, twice,
 breathe, relax.

I stand side by side by side by several more
 until we start to pass through each other,
combining in forms, deeper & deeper immersion
 in this moment, always have been here,
always falling, always the blinding sheets
 of water before me,

always the mighty cascade,
always its rocky music,
always the cherry blossom perfume,
always the mead touched to my lips,
always a kind of embrace, a close, wet kiss

always my fingers & bare toes numb,
always the touch of something warm,
always the taste of always,
as I take off my hat & quilt &
 enter the waterfall.

I am tasted, chewed, swallowed.
After a timeless length, released.
“Return, Roddy. You are needed.
But come to me when you need,
 when you are too heavy. Here you
will be salved, always.”

The path back to #1 House seems shorter,
 I barely feel its passage, & yet
am soon arrived. The door left partway
 open, tho everything within dark & quiet.

I would hardly know it all from a dream
 but the still-damp quilt I huddle
back to bed with. But for the soft leathery
 hat I wear new, & now, & always, as
strange gift of my strange new friend.

******

xlvi. Eclipse

I dream the great mountain again,
 a high snowy Beast. I am working
along a pond in winter far below, spearing
 fish, sweating my hours. My thoughts
dispersed in holding my pose, spear
 held steady, watching deep in the depths.
Waiting.
But it does no good.
I keep watching the reflection of the pond
 instead, how the mountain reflects
crookedly, wrongly, how its snowy cap
 much fuller than what I look up to see.

“Roddy,” her voice is strange, sweet, but
 insistent in my ears.

Close my eyes & fling my spear wildly,
 anything, a splash but no fish, then
no waters. Open again. Again the figure larger
 than me. I know they’re old-brown
sheaves of wheat, leaned against
 one another, like a crooked man’s shape
but inert.
And yet.

I don’t know who’s gathered these sheaves,
 & I’ve seen no animals they will feed.
And, as they have before in these dreams,
 they walk, like many-limbed Beast,
across the field of my mind. Aware of me
 near, watching? If so, unconcerned.
Like it has somewhere to get to & none
 of my affair.

“Roddy, we need you, please return,”
 & I shake my head, cough, try to wake me
up & find an escape.

I try to show her what it’s like for me
 sometimes. When I tire & despair.

There is a tree, a single white birch,
 tall & bare & beautiful. There is a
hmmming very deep around this tree,
 nothing else near it. And then a low
throbbing, increasing like the light in day,
 dark in night, & a small winged Beast
alights on one of its lower branches. Then
 another one. Tens. Hundreds. Thousands.
Erupt from & into the skies, & surround
 the tree & occupy its every inch.
Terrifying. Beautiful. Inevitable.

Then the hmmming changes, becomes
 distant, there is departure, one by one,
tens by tens, thousands by thousands,
 they go, they drink back into the skies &,
after a long wordless cry in my throat,
 are gone, completely gone.

Suddenly I am back in the mailbox shack
 where I’d come. It had been a long while.
Iris’s love had not heard from her &
 wrote letter after letter. I find them
in the mailbox, red arm down. Take them,
 up to the hill. Same burnt brown paper
& odd handwriting. Each letter begging
 her news, her love, her touch.

I’d intended to leave when a swoon
 found me half-crashed into the crude bed, its feathered quilt.
To the known dreams with their unknown
 messages.

Now I’m at the writing table & there
 a mirror, none I’d seen before.
I hold it up, expecting my grubby visage,
 but no. A woman’s face, now a girl’s,
now shifting, the eye’s oceanic blue
 in all the phases.

I’m in a green nightgown, gauzy, worn
 more for pleasure than comfort. My hair
is read, long, beautiful. My hands stroke
 down to my breasts, high, full, &
my smooth stomach. My pussy is tight
 & my legs long. Still Roddy enough to heat
But still—
“I am Iris,” I say to nobody.

Look down at the desk, toasted paper,
 quill & pen.

“What do I write to him?” Who is asking
 whom? “How do I let it all go to do
what I have to do?”

I stand. Walk outside. No cane. No boots.
 This body is lithe & young even as I grow
old. Am I old? I don’t know how to reck
 such a thing. But now I am running
through the White Woods, marveling
 at how I see far & near at once,
hidden buds, snapped branches, bushes
 of berries. I run like Creatures do &
soon they are following, know me well,
 White Bunny, Hedgehog, Giraffes, many
others, I am running like that is what I am.

The trees get wavery around me, strangely shifting hues,
 all begins to dream together, clouds
in the dark-blue skies above dance
 wild & loosely, & there again that great
mountain in the distance, joining
 in this mad run, this great dance,
& when I slow, it is not weariness.

It is the white birch tree, waving back
 & forth in time, flattens to two dimensions,
clusters thickly before mine eyes with
 all its years gone & to come, I near to touch,
near to dare to touch—
to explodes when I do
the tens of hundreds of thousands of winged
 Beast fill me, every inch of my skin,
every muscle, every bone, fill me beyond
 me, beyond the possible—

“Do you understand, Roddy?” I say to the
 quiet, empty night. I wake, fully wake,
for a moment, the White Birch before me,
 my own familiar body, naked, cold,
fall, & pass hard out cold again. Still breathing,
 but unknowing all.

******

xlvii. Hundred Bridges

Everything wants. Everything longs.
Call it music, call dreams its songs.

Before I fully wake, I remember to
 a childhood place. Never seems like
it should been there, or that nobody
 knew it.

It too was in the woods. The White Woods?
I don’t know. Maybe so.

There was a natural pond of lilies, green &
 pink as they are, floating the water
  as though it’s what all living things do,
 or should do.

I’d watch, come to watch, & to feel something
 words in me didn’t try to say. Just watch
the landed world upside down & foolish
 in those pond waters, the lilies sure
of themselves, the lilies were right.

Waking leaves me those waters, those years
 when I paid attention to the green.

Wake. Big bed, big room, lit by that
 red-fringed lamp in the corner. Wall mirro.
Heavy curtains. How?

“I found you. This place was nearest
 to carry you.”
Look around & there he is again. Red whiskers.
 Mashed nose. Same long red straw hat.
His overcoat & boots by the door.

I try to get up but he gently pushes
 me back under the jingling quilt.
“Today you rest, Roddy. Drink this.”

His mug seems mined craggy from deep earth.
Warm. A tea. Buzzes. Hmmms? Not quite.
I drink. I lie back. But who?

“I come when they need me.”
“Who?”
Oh. The Creatures.

“You live in these White Woods too?”
“Everyone lives in the White Woods,
 Roddy.”

This makes no sense.
“Your lily pond. It’s here too.”
“How did you know?”

He stands, pushes the lamp over to the wall, opposite the window, now
 no longer blank.

It’s a great map. I feel weird studying it,
 though. It depicts a strange watery valley, near
  the sea, & there look to be many bridges
crossing water, connecting one place
 to another, myriad, like a dream.

I get from bed to study it closer, &
 he doesn’t object. He points to a low region,
hidden in shadows. “There. Your lily pond
 is there.”

“I don’t understand. Where is this?
 You said my lily pond was in the White Woods.”

He finger like an old old twig points to
 other spots. “Your shacks, Roddy,
here, & here, & here, & here, & here.”

“But this map isn’t the White Woods!”

“Step outside with me.”

I walk down the stairs & out the
 front door of this place I’ve known
often, enough to call it Iris House.

But not out the door the countless
 pale ancient trees of the White Woods.
I am in the valley shown on the map.

The whiskered man, back in his boots &
 overcoat, regards me curiously.
“Do you want to see your lily pond?”

I look down & realize I’m dressed,
 down to my boots & staff. “My knapsack.”

“We’ll be back. It’s just my way,” & he
 heads off. We shortly come to a river
& cross its simple wooden bridge, rope rails.

He is ancient but moves fast & the climb
 is steep up a rocky terrained hill & I lose
sight of him but breathless arrive to my
 tall shack with its narrow aperture for light.

I slide inside & he isn’t there. I wish
 this shack could talk so I could ask it
where are the WhiteWoods? As it is,
 I kneel in my beam, fiercer for
being high on a hill now.

Close my eyes, let the light & heat come,
 & with them a sense of some other
place. A desert. I am walking toward
 a shack. Not one of mine. No Woods either.

A shriveled little exotic man sits on a stool
 outside the shack. Seems to be gnattering,
click-clicks, noise-noises. Reminds me of
 the imp.

But then speaks to me, close & breathing
 into my face, eyes like far universes,
“Neither dream nor death is truly a remote land!”
 He then brays delightedly, more gnattering.
Then more words from far universe:
 “We are & are not!” Cackles delightedly.
One more bit of speech: “History is the stuff
 of blood & bone.” Leans very close to kiss
my cheek, I feel his ancient gristle.
 His kiss returns me to mine own shack.

“Roddy! Let’s go! Come on!” I slide out
 & find my red-whiskered friend waiting.

We move on, descending the long hill
 as the air gets saltier in taste.
The sea? The real sea? We cross over
 a rocky culvert through a covered
wooden bridge. Arrive to . . . #1 House?

Set back on a grassy stretch & beyond it
 the sea. No beach below, just hard
churning water on those rocks.

I enter the shack, what I think is
 my shack but inside I’m somewhere else.
I’m in a kind of . . . Tower. I’m a staircase
 that circles up & up around a main
stone pillar. I slowly climb the stone
 stairs, studying the pillar as I do.

There are faces in it, of men, of women,
 Creatures, beings, some look anguished
but others joyous, curious, content.
 I follow the steps all the way up
to a great room. Big tables covered high
 in books. And that front window, a telescope
pointed out, where? Down, not to the stars.

“Roddy!” my whiskered friend calls.
 I want to ignore him, go to the window.
But I’m afraid. I descend.

He moves to continue our journey
 but I stand. “Wait.”

He looks at me. A whiskery smile. “We’re
 nearly there.”
“What is all this? No White Woods.
 Shacks that I know but are Towers
inside. Tell me.”

He comes close to me, a man nearly my
 height but far more muscular. No slow
in his ancient years.

“Roddy, do you trust the White Woods?”
“Yes,” I say. I’d say it twice as hard if
 another word existed.
“Then come with me. Continue along.”

His eyes are not far universes, just old
 & kind. My choice in this.

I nod. He resumes his swift walk.

We descend for awhile, moving fast.
 Then are climbing again, clamboring
where no real path, the sound of
 steaming waters nearby, & suddenly
come to a loud, blowsy falls, the bridge
 over it old, wooden slatted, rope rails
in shreds.

He nods to me, & squats to crawl
 across. I wait till he’s across.
He makes it, beckons my turn.

The falls below remind me of the one
 I know in the White Woods. Nearly
fall in touching my head & realizing
 no leather hat on it. Crawl & crawl
the remain.

Some scrubbery & then there it is:
 the mailbox. Red handle down.

I look inside & there a letter. My
 red-whiskered friend seems to be
letting me my moment with this
 but I call to him. “Over here.
Read this with me, friend.”

He nods. There’s no woodsy hill to climb
 here, just heights & depths of rocks &
scrub & water. So I lead him into the shack
 & we sit together on the bed.

I pull out the letter, unfold its burnt toast
 edges, read aloud.

“Dear Roddy, If you are reading this,
don’t dismiss this journey as a dream.
These are the White Woods though
you see no trees. The Creatures did send
your companion. He will help you. Follow
him to the lily as you are are doing.
I asked him to make sure this letter
got to you in the usual way. Pay attention,
Roddy.”

Unsigned. Of course. He listens closely,
 nods. Stands up & gestures us out.
Wordless, I put the letter back in
 the mailbox, & follow him.

We climb & climb & climb & before us reveals
 a great great bridge. Strong, powerful,
high above the valley. I see that my
narrow shack is on a hill with a
gaping hole in it. And look there!

At the apex of the bridge, climbed to
 by a metal ladder, is my shack with
the two armchairs! We climb to it,
 we sit. The leather bucket has what looks
like clean water in it. We each take a good
 drink.

We sit quietly. The day has mostly passed.
 “I trust but I don’t know why?”

“Why?”
“Why this? What am I to learn?”
“You’re leaving the White Woods soon.”
“I am?”

He points to a distant dark mass
 on the horizon, far from the sea
on our other side. “There. A village.”

“But why?”
“You’re ready.”
“For what?”
“For what’s next, Roddy.”

He stands, & offers a hand to help me up.
“We’re nearly there.”

We climb down the stairs, pass slowly across
 the great bridge. The light is dimming
in this valley. He becomes more a
 moving shadow I’m following along.
Down & down.

Oh. Here. The farmhouse. Crossing
 an ancient rocky bridge to it. Missing
step. Side door. I look around but my
 friend is scarce. I walk in.

The first room cluttered as always.
 The second murky with mirrors.

Then the library. Armchair. Bookcase.
 Fireplace. Writing desk. A book on it.
Thick & old.

I pick it up, sit with it in the armchair.
Green & gold cover, a kind of labyrinth
  design. Infinitely intricate. I think
   of the Tower room, its telescope.

Open its heavy cover. A page reading
 simply: “For those lost.” I turn
more pages.

The light in the room obscures the text
 or its tongue unknown anyway, but
there are images I can see well.

A castle high upon what looks like
 an Island. A strange path between
tall walls, & what looks like a Hummingbird
 flying away down it. A strange courtyard,
whose sandy floor has been scraped
 into deeply intricate patterns of stones.
A single white shell along a rocky shore.
 An ivory handled hairbrush. Stairs
descending into the earth. A charred
 book partially wrapped in burnt leaves.
Flying saucers in the sky?

It’s now too dark to see more &
 “Roddy!” quickly retrieves me outside.

“This way!” I follow his voice, his
 heavy-booted steps. Run out of shacks
so this must be my lily pond.

Virtually dark as I suddenly smell &
 see trees around me. My trees!
My White Woods!

I follow & there, breathless to see,
 there it is. The sky has receded some
darkness, as skies usually don’t, & given
 me a dark purple-crimson dusk
to find my lilies floating as sure
 as ever on their waters.

I am so glad of them, so delirious
 of my recovered White Woods,
that I can only watch the light
 again fade. Happy, happy.

And my friend’s voice in my ear,
 “The White Woods will never leave
you, Roddy. They have been with you
 always. There are things, brave &
dangerous things, you must do soon,
 & for them as well as all men.
But they are with you, wherever you go,
 & believe in you. You will matter to
the world, Roddy. Now sleep.”

I nearly wake but his tough twisted hand
 presses me back down. The quilt jingles
softly. The lilies are glad for my visit.
 I am leaving soon.

******

xlviii. Rain           

“There’s too much beauty to quit.”
—David Benioff, Stay (film), 2005.

The rain is hard. It hurts. It burns.
I can’t hmmm my way to one of my
 shacks, or for help from Creatures
 or anyone else. It won’t happen
  in me.

I’ve emerged from the White Woods &
 ahead a path to shelter. Through raw
 grey fields, to that distant village.

I see houses, church, a water tower.
How long has it been? What are men
 like now? How do they live when mine
 own city suffers so much dead?

It looks prosperous, green, lively.
Nothing burnt, no ominous smoke above.
What year is this? I can’t easily
 count the winters I’ve endure in these
 White Woods, the springs I’ve celebrated.
I’ve grown older, but not old, leather hat
 still comfortable on my head, boots
 trusted skin to my feet. Can to balance,
 cane a friend like Creatures.

Are those crows up ahead, weaving
 above those grey fields? Or ancient
 flying reptiles? Is this deeper in the
White Woods, in truth, where old years
 return, or freeze, or slow like the
   dry drops from that wave above
   my head?

No. Yes. I am on the edge of the White Woods,
 leaving them as they will never leave me.
That seems a village of men & women
 as I once knew. Mortal, stupid men.

I didn’t have to go. I could have begged
 return to the White Woods. Died there,
 if need be. But this rain won’t kill me,
    which is worse. It is White Woods’ kiss,
    its nudge me return to the world of men.

What are those smoky apparitions on
 the brown hills beyond that village?
Are those giantess women in long black
 gowns & twisted striped hats? Has magic
returned to the daylight world of grab & get?

Are the old myths real? When every last
 bloom falls, there will be long silence,
 then a hmmming, & deeper, & all will rise?

No. That is no myth of this village or any
 other. Cosmic Early described it in
 Aftermath. It’s a wish. Sugar in a
    sad man’s heart.

I didn’t want to go. Even after the
 red-whiskered man told me so.
I continued to live in my White Woods,
 to travel between my shacks, learning
 to hmmm the right path from one to
   the next. Used my chalk rocks
   for pictures I drew, not path markings
   I no longer needed.

I drew pictures for the Creatures,
 because books spooked them, &
yet I felt they could help me
 with the myths I encountered.

I gather flat stones together in an
 open clearing, line them together
 into a kind of schoolroom chalkboard,
 & there I draw figures, one after another.

Always curious, liking me well enough,
 they begin to gather around & sniff.
 Usually the White Bunny first, not because
 a leader but because my Tender.
 A trusted position among them for
 recking peoplefolk.

I drew figures I’d culled from Aftermath,
 from the quilts, from the strange book
 in the farmhouse. Learned quickly
 they shied away from any written words.
 Sniffed wrong. So just pictures.
 The ones they liked they’d gather round.

I drew a Hummingbird they liked,
 the hedgehog came, the giraffes, gnattering
 little imp, others. Much sniffing.

I tried images I had seen too. A decrepit
 shack in the desert. Sniff, sniff. A spaceship
 against a starry night sky. Sniff, sniff.
 Stairs into the earth. Small ivory hairbrush.
 Sniff, sniff. A castle high up on an Island
 hill. Sniff, sniff.

Then I tried Iris as best I could. Long hair.
 Sweet, intelligent face, very. A dress neither
 royalty nor pauper’s. Her they gathered to
 closely. The White Bunny said in my mind: “yes.”

I would never know the rest, the story
 I sought was the world’s & here only
 some of it. Effects. results. I sought
 cause, I sought whys. My doubts
 understood the red-whiskered man’s
 admonition to go. My doubts understood
 that the desperate men of the world
 would by black machine or black magic
 find these Woods, find these Creatures,
 harness them to better ride into darkness.

I’d come here to be healed, &
 then to help. For how could I
 not be healed? By the Creatures who
 napped in my lap & tended me.
 By the waterfall I would interate
 before, full moon, three nights on end,
 more, iterate to dozens, echoing &
re-echoing each other, what we felt,
 how to share, how to share?

But not yet, not yet. Would argue
 with Fyodor as we drank ladle after
 ladle of good clean water. Noticed
that my White Bunny friend would
 not come near these arguments.
 Sniff twice, keep a distance.

“Why must I leave?”
“It’s not me you’re pestering.”
“Who?”
“Stay, Roddy.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t.”
“No. I want to.”
“And can’t.”
“The world’s no better, Roddy. It’s worse.”

Hours in my narrow shack, silent or
 moaning on my knees in the beam.
She appears to me. I don’t know which one.

“I love you, Roddy.”
“I love you. Are you waiting for me?”
“No. I’m not the reason you’ll leave
 the White Woods.”

Even the long-awaited letter from Iris.
 The full moonlit. Burnt toast
 envelope & letter within. Shaking
 as I read it.

“Beloved,
Our man, the conduit between us
these many years, is leaving these
beautiful Woods, returning to the world.

He doesn’t know why he has to go.
He’s bound for doing what I long ago
parted you to do. What I cannot do alone.
He will meet others who together will
far travel to save the world.

When you meet him, know he bears
my touch, my kiss with him, for you.
A new way for us to be together,
close again, a last time. Wait for him,
my love.
Iris.”

I suppose I began to retreat more
 to the other shacks. But #1 House
 lured me one pre-dawn out to visit
 my waterfall & it was dry, not
 a drop. “The water’s still here, Roddy,
 but it won’t be. Be brave on your way,
  my love, travel brave always.”

Retreat further, to the Iris House,
 upstairs, curtains shut, lamp off.
 Silence. Sleep was a rare friend but
 took me.

By my side sat the red-whiskered
 spectre. He touched my face gentle,
 smiled his beautiful ugly smile.

“Stranger strengths bide this world,
 Roddy.”
“And we are just lovely notes among
 their long, long tunes.”
“We share what we have.”
“What we are.”
“Or the world lessens.”
“As it has.”

Finally, the farmhouse. Through
 the cluttered kitchen. The mirrors room,
 which only showed me now, every
 last one. The library. The armchair.
 The green & gold book. Its pictures.
 I sniffed to understand. I hmmm’d.
Croaked.

“Are you going, Roddy?” My brothers.
“Let me tell you a story first.”
They gather close in my mind.

“It was the championship. For the
 trophy. The rookie goes for 6 for 6,
 catches everything thrown his way.
 Big celebration after.”
“Great!”
“Cheers!”

“But the rookie hesitates to linger in
 a certain area of the dugout.
 Uncertain. Foolish. Then the star
 of the team shoves him against
 a wall & says, ‘you didn’t
 read the goddamned rulebook!’
 & he leaps down the stairwell
   into the darkness.”
“Wow.”
“What then?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Come on.”

I turn to the last page of the book,
 one I had not seen before, &
 its simple lines: “What we feel
 is what we do. What we feel is,
 nearly, what we are.”

The rain on the farmhouse is harder &
 harder. I hear its old shingles snap &
 break, the attic above me, the same one
 of my dreams, crackle & suffer. When
the hot rain breaks through the ceiling &
 strikes me, I go. I have to go.

It drives me along a sure way,
 & falls hardly ten feet away. I see
 the whiskers, & noses, & flashes of fur,
 & know the Creatures are following
 me as they can. I stop, the rain
 fierces on me, but I stop. Pull out
 my leather hat from my knapsack.

 Pull out Aftermath, drop, & let it burn
 wetly to pulp, to earth. Pull out
 my compass. No longer spinning,
I follow its course now. The rain
 lessens a bit at this choice.

I arrive to where I am standing now,
 able to see the shadows of Creatures
 back among the trees, to feel all
 I’ve known & loved back there,
all I am taking with me into the
 world of men. All I serve, all I will
 protect. All I may never see again.

I throw them all a kiss, the one
 my heart has grown all these years,
 & I turn away. Following the one path
 toward that village. Laugh when I
 see the Beast of walking sheaves,
 paused looking at me steadily,
 noticing me, first & last time.

As I arrive to the edge of the village,
 the rain is nearly gone. The White Woods
 looks vague & distant to mine eye
 even as I see it clearly in my heart.
 A part of me has iterated back there,
 has not left. Smiling, stubborn,
 I walk on.

This village is empty, it seems.
 Not burned, not poisoned, just
 nobody. I walk it few streets.
 Its markets deserted, its church
 door open, but unmolested.
 Its homes not ransacked but
 not peopled.

I’m not sure what to do, whether
 to stay or dare those brown hills
 beyond before nightfall when I
hear a soft voice from among the
 shadows near the church.
“Have you come to kill too then?”

I look. Nod him come out. Take a look.
 A young man, like I was when first
I entered the White Woods. Scared,
 like I had been. “Put down your
hands, son. Tell me who you are.”

******

xlix. Fireworks

There were fireworks over the river
 on night when I was very small.
I watched, hoisted up on shoulders,
 shifted one to the next, half-asleep
& thinking the sky was exploding
 in many colors. Wondering what
we’d do now that the world had ended.

I learned later that a Peace-maker
 had come, & the fireworks celebrated
his ending the wars among several
 old tribes. Hadn’t got the peace he’d
sought, since peace meant the largest
 of the several took full command &
the rest now a knee & oath to its king
 alone. So the world did rather end
that night, in the sky, & below.

We were assimilated slowly, not by
 killing our men, raping our women,
carrying the young off. More by rules,
 strictures, the coming of teachers &
priests to smooth arguments about
 human purpose, life & death, to how
the victors believed. The Peace-maker
 kept our bodies unkilled but lost us
most of the rest.

The old ways continued, hidden,
 unspoken of by daylight. Most of
our tribe didn’t know this, couldn’t,
 & gradually let go our ancient belief
of a home Island from which all men
 came, & a magic structure on it
that revealed all of life’s source & purpose.

I was the son of the old King’s closest
 advisor, strongest conscience, dearest
friend. By which, not intelligence or
 sensitivity, I was one night led
from the tent I shared with my father
 & sister far from the encampment
we all still maintained by the river.
 We were fisher folk, before & after
conquest.

To the Woods, a fair walk & then
 climb up into the hills. Hurried,
urgently hurried to move swiftly &
 silently. Into the Woods, unslowing,
no path followed but now I heard
 in the several cloaked figures
around me a low music, a hmmming,
 & we moved unceasing for an hour
or more until a clearing among
 the trees, the full moon shining
down, the light so bright & glaring
 I could blink & see a kind of
exotic building formed by its light
 & shadows. Entered the clearing,
maybe the building too.

Only then did those around me pull
 off the hoods, their cloaks entirely.
My father, other men of our tribe,
 but not the King.

“Why not our King?”
“He is watched. He cannot come yet.”
“What is this?”
One of the older men answered. Tall,
 a long slender beard, had rarely spoken
  or looked at me previously.

“We won’t let a necessary peace efface
 us our history. We will fight no more
but our history, our myths, will keep
 by these gatherings.”

“They don’t know then?”
“No. They would misunderstand this
 as threat.”

More figures emerged into the light.
 All men. I questioned this too.

“We can’t have them hurt or named
 traitors. They have their ways of
remembering too. Preserving.”

I could think of no more questions
 to ask, knowing they only answered
me by respect to my father. Nodded.

Twas then that a more full circle
 formed around the clearing, each
man & the few boys like me took
 the hands of both on his side,
clasped tightly, & a low hmmm,
 I don’t know from who first, began
  to emerge, barely more than
colored breathing at first, then
 deeper & greater, & rising & falling
back, like ocean waves, & within
 it something more, I closed my eyes,
tried to listen my way to it,
 could not, opened my eyes again,
& saw marvels indeed.

Among us, & back in the trees around
 the clearing, were these Creatures,
& they too were hmmming. I saw
 a White Bunny, brown & black &
spotted bears, several giraffes, a purple
 furred dancing thing, even bloo-eyed
kittees, among countless others,
 they were all close to us, & sharing
this hmmming as though we all belong
 to it somehow.

I don’t remember returning, just
 waking in my usual bed by usual morning.
I lastly remember, like the dream
 it seemed, looking up at the stars &
seeing how low they hung, how wondrously
 low to all of us in that clearing.

My father dressing, smiling at me.
Nudging me to get my boots & gear
 together. A smile the size & slyness
  of a wink.
My sister helping me, bossing me
 as she did. Her own smile free of
that night’s secret magical events.
 But her own nights, I knew, & hoped,
& smiled too, & tugged on my boots, &
 readied for the day’s work at fishing.

******

l. Little Purse

I’d had it with me for seeming
 all my days, a sweet secret of a thing,
with its mysteries deeper in.
 But for nobody else. This seemed
important, seemed almost like
 another had my promise of secrecy.

A little blue-green purse, hardly big as my
 hand’s palm, a simple zipper at its top.
Its design, however, was like the
 most dense storybook in my hand,
telling me, or trying to tell me, the story
 of the world’s beginning, prosper, decline, end.

I don’t know how the images on it
 could shift, change, enlarge,
diminish to mine eye. I only knew
 for sure that if anyone neared
when I was in study of it, the images
 would freeze, terror? I wasn’t sure.
But into my cloak, under my matt,
 almost like an “or else” in it.

Often a great cavern deep under
 earth, & the great tree in its center,
& sometimes I could see close enough
 to study its branches, as though
I perched like a bird on one, or
 curl far below at its trunk, look up
& up, & feel I was not alone, that
 many looked up with me.

Sometimes a great Castle on a tall hill,
 on an Island, like the old myths,
I would concentrate when this image
 came, sometimes would be let
to enter through its tall tall door,
 to roam long crimson lit hallways,
see figures moving about that did
 not know of me or mine.

Rarely, most rarely, a structure so
 great I could not fathom its size
or reck its purpose. I would stand
 beneath its great arch, looking up
& up to it. Letters, words up there?
 I didn’t know. It seemed to matter.
Once, only once, my little purse had
 let me walk in, pass the archway.

Within, as somewhat strange, were
 several trinkets I studied over & over,
caressing them with my fingers, weighing
 them in my palm. There were two golden coins,
a small dice, a device like a tool for connecting,
 & a little white game piece. Each seemed
important, & together like part of a language
 I had the wrong kind of mind to know.
But I was patient, this was gift, this
 was secret, me to shape my mind to kind.

The night after brought to the White Woods,
 same mind but wild with wonder over
what I’d been allowed, I tugged out my
 blue-green little purse from where I’d
hid it in my old matt, kept it deep under
 my brown blanket to study.

The purse glowed in the darkness of
 my hands, its images shifted unsettled
between great castle, tree, archway.
 Restless, like I’d never seen it, & I felt
it vibrate in my hand. Hmmming? Like we
 had in those White Woods? Then I knew
it wanted me to zip it open, examine
 the trinkets anew.

The two golden coins in my hand also
 kept shifting images, faster & faster.
The small dice its spots danced one side
 to others, what game was this?
The connector piece seemed softer
 in my hand than before, almost
like a finger pointing, pointing me.

The game piece was still in the purse
 but no longer white & inert. Now it looked
back at me with a merry laughing face.
 A . . . Creature? Like in those Woods?
I lay the purse on my open hand to
 allow it exit if wished. It, she,
walked out onto my palm, bent
 to sniff & gnaw a little, then look
up at me like she was the prize I’d won.

Stirrings in the tent. My father, always
 tired, slept deep till dawn. My sister,
however, could stir in a feather of light.
 Always watching me, too, a spy for any
fun I might be having alone, any secret
 I might know without her.

I didn’t breathe. The little purse’s glow
 dimmed as though to my desperate wish.
She stirred again, then all silent & still.
 I looked under again at the strange little
miracle of a prize.

Opened my hand & there she was,
 the tiniest little pandy bear one could
imagine. Hardly three thoughts high,
 dressed in a red & orange skirt,
looking at me like I pleased her ever wish,
 maybe like the whole world pleased her every wish.

I wanted to talk to her, to ask her
 every possible question, but could not.
This was more secret than ever.

I finally tried something the single
 way I could think to greet her.

I closed my eyes, hoping, daring, &
 recalled me the hmmm that had
led all of us to that clearing in the
 White Woods. I hmmm’d it again
in my mind, hoping, hoping she could
 hear me, my awe & pleasure of her.

There was at first a kind of a laugh,
 a chuckle, a cackle, as though to say
she heard me, & then it gave way
 to the hmmming that I was still trying.
She calmed me, helped me slow &
 deeper within, swim, fly, dream
in the sugarskyhigh liquid jewel
 of hmmming. As I relaxed, I felt like
others were with us. Near as the trinkets
 in my own coin purse. Far, far, in miles
& centuries & worlds. Molecules & supernovas.

I was not alone. My small tribe of
 half-assimilated souls was not alone.
There were truths greater & deeper than
 men could reck & compel upon each
other, stranger strengths bide this
 world. We were like lovely notes among their
long, long tunes.

Again, I slept, slept into this cosmic
 music, wherein all were safe, &
when I woke by morning I could feel
 the obscure bump in my matt,
that only I knew meant something
 wonderful.

I wondered all day as I cast out
 nets, hauled in fish, laughed like
some other boy I’d been, with people
 I loved so much more now it terrified
me. I wondered if she would be again
 in the coin purse, if I would again
hold her lightly in my palm, if
 we would hmmm together again.

I started to laugh suddenly, to cackle
 out loud, & yes, & of course, &
wonderful it was, all of it,
 wonderful to know so little but
now trust so much.

******

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