ONE

WHEN I CANNOT SLEEP—DAY SIX—A LETTER

      The wind is having its way with the house tonight,

      with the windows.

      It’s finally possible

      to undress myself like a Corinthian. I remove

      the crickets

      from my pillow, place the clock

      facedown, lay my brass collar stays

      in a leather box.

      It’s my turn to suffer.

      The stovepipe gnaws through the room like an emperor

      who’s lost his voice,

      and you’re at it again,

      burning laps in the ambulance

      out on the frozen lake.

      Everything seems

      like something you’d say to me

      in a small town

      to keep me breathing like a little beast—

      skein of brant breaking heavy, some cut-loose

      kindling. Neither of us

      has been perfect.

      I carry my fistful of pebbles,

      you still threaten to swallow them down

      when I’m distracted, lost

      in a squall of chrysanthemums

      and the weird. Place the world

      back in orbit—

      I was mistaken. If you do not

      come closer, we will not

      need our umbrage.

      It is not snow that covers us,

      nor spooks, nor wind, just as

      this isn’t a shadow

      (say stranger), or the carrying off

      of one animal in place of another.

TO BE A GOD

      Starting now, I’ll do everything

      as if I were a god.

      I’ll walk from a dark room

      as a god walks from a dark room.

      I’ll speak to strangers

      as a god speaks to strangers.

      When it’s time to say something important

      I’ll rise from my chair

      as a god would

      and speak in my

      celestial certitudes.

      There will be no more

      lap-sitting,

      no more stories

      about my days

      as a barback or a ferryman

      or a farrier.

      There will be fewer hours spent tuning

      my piano

      and patting my hunting dogs

      or remembering

      my youth. When I need you to hurt

      I’ll put you to sleep as a god puts you to sleep,

      I’ll play my discordant harp as a god plays a harp,

      and the effects will be the same.

      The noise of the bramble

      never leaves me.

      I bless the cedar. The months go by. I bless your saw.

      When you need

      me to hurt, I’ll dim

      in the linden leaves, I’ll hide

      in the fire-scarred hills,

      and the great guards

      of my gilded name

      will circle around to protect me.

      And you’ll be there,

      and I’ll know your name

      as a god knows your name,

      as a father knows your name,

      but you won’t recognize me.

MY MOTHER TAKES THE STAND

      The room is walking

      into a woman. It’s lying to you

      again—hasn’t learned.

      The room is walking into a woman and he claims

      this time

      he has the evidence. A telephone

      dangles from his white-collar neck. Right.

      That’s my cue.