I.
The Santa Anas, childlike and profound,
blanket me; I see the dust stirring the valley
and clouding downtown San Bernardino;
I feel the sting of your loss.
The black oak leaves, brittle, tumbling,
crack under my feet. Is your hand
touching the dryness of my lips?
You sing: "Don't sit, mountain-still,
a coyote skull whistling."
I tug at the skin on my wrist, trying
to peel off the seam, my stubbornness.
The length o’ days ageän do shrink
An’ flowers be thin in meäd, among
The eegrass a-sheenèn bright, along
Brook upon brook, an’ brink by brink.
Noo starlèns do rise in vlock on wing —
Noo goocoo in nest-green leaves do sound —
Noo swallows be now a-wheelèn round —
Dip after dip, an’ swing by swing.
Sing now the heavy furniture of the fall,
the journey’ s ending. Strong Aeneas bears
deep on his shoulders all the dark wood chairs
and tables of destruction. Bruising, blunt,
they force his feet on up the war-scraped hills
past raped dead temples. All Achilles kills
litters the trail of sofa legs with other
’ Twas in the month of December, and in the year 1883,
That a monster whale came to Dundee,
Resolved for a few days to sport and play,
And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay.
So the monster whale did sport and play
Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay,
Until he was seen by some men one day,
And they resolved to catch him without delay.
The city and the continent
trail off into cold black
water the same way: at
the western edge, a flat
stretch with precipitous
planes set perpendicular
and back from the beach
or beach-equivalent, a blacktop
margin where the drugged
and dying trudge, queue up
for Hades. Bolinas
had its junkie lady with gray
skin, gray sweater, stumbling
through the sand with the short-
burst intensity and long-run aimlessness
of crackhead hustlers on the West Street piers.
A telephone line goes cold;
birds tread it wherever it goes.
A farm back of a great plain
tugs an end of the line.
I call that farm every year,
ringing it, listening, still;
no one is home at the farm,
the line gives only a hum.
Some year I will ring the line
on a night at last the right one,
and with an eye tapered for braille
from the phone on the wall
I will see the tenant who waits —
the last one left at the place;
through the dark my braille eye
will lovingly touch his face.
The farmer's dog leapt over the stile,
his name was little Bingo,
the farmer's dog leapt over the stile,
his name was little Bingo.
B with an I — I with an N,
N with a G — G with an O;
his name was little Bingo:
B—I—N—G—O!
His name was little Bingo.
As a child I parleyed with animals, stuffed and real.
Making my kitten pilot of a boot, I guided
from one end of a string the dizzy flight and collapse.
I was fearful of people as well as things,
and my faithful toy shepherd with his painted face
sat by me on the bed in the gloom.
I was disdainful of dolls as weak people.
