Two
The Advice of the Dream
The dream that escaped the dream
went to live in a field. It was happy,
being undreamt, snapping dead sticks to add
to the fire it warmed itself around.
All night, in order to stay awake, it counted places.
How many oceans? How many mountain trails
lined with fern and woodchip, with flower?
And how many windows in the evening strangely lit?
The arms. Avenues. Estuaries
of ancient rivers, markets of spice, cumin
shifting in the barrels like sand,
like the desert, like anything in the open air.
It happens that the characters inside the dream
mill about, awkwardly, lost.
Theyâve been knocked from the epic,
loosed from line of plot, from story.
The index cards have gone blank in their hands.
Whatâs my line? When do I enter? And where should I stand?
Evenings in the field, thereâs the rustle
of autumnal husks, and beyond that,
a slight creek running. The advice of the dream?
Itâs important to stay unattached
to an actual happening. This makes you fleet-footed,
able to be everywhere in the world.
Landscape with a Lake
Over & over youâve returned, all summer,
troubledâ
circling the lake, unable to decide,
and seeing that now the poor
echoes of laughter, the last rising voice
has looked around, shuddered
& disappeared,
what will you do? The reeds, softened
by algae, draw back, and the torn pods of cattails,
which during the day
surrounded the lake, return
to dusk. Itâs a reliefâisnât it?ânot having
to be seen.
(And do you feel less
obvious in the dark? Can you keep
forever, these secrets?)
Say I will return
to my wife and there go the herons you saw earlier, there go
memories of herons. Say I will not and something inside slips,
the particular arrangements, the shapes
& layer of clouds. Cirrus,
Cumulusâthese are the lovely names,
the children. All summer youâve returned,
listened to the sounds of water, listened
for a voice, a decision. But now
the wind is gathering in the north,
and now it is somewhere behind you,
where the leaves already are falling,
and the snow is coming onâthick
& deep. We will not be here
very long. Do not
tell the truth. Donât leave me.
Landscape with House at the Edge of a Field
What was it that you wanted to say?
Iâve been waiting
and after all this time, nothing,
not a word. The geese
are crossing over
and your pictureâs
on the table. Under the lamp. I wonât remove it,
and the women who visit look sour, or snicker
like idiots.
Where are you?
It shouldnât matter, I know. You were only
some troubleâa few drinks
in a rusted-out pickupâ
but I believed. Now, over the rows
of long broken stalks,
the sky goes grey. And the husks, those uneasy
remnants, begin to scratch
and rustle. Soon I will open the door
of the house. I will go in.
The Murderer
When he enters the room,
the walls darken,
just slightly, and a cloud
covers the lake. But nobody notices. The partyâs
already started,
and our hosts, dreamlike, serve up the last
of the summer cocktails
to gorgeous guests. Outside,
floating across the terrace, white petals. An old yacht
slides by. The murderer
is touching the cream pitcher. He circles
through conversations, then he is turning over
his silver:
the salad fork, just once, the spoon. His hands
move exactlyâcool, detached
like the light slanting lower across the lawn. Slowly, in
October,
the body will surface, the body
will reveal itself
and though nobody knows yet, some women,
after the capture, will say I could tell something
was different. I just kind of sensed it,
but thatâs not true. Only the walls
knew he was sliding among us,
a secret celebrity, and trailing after him
drama, romance, disease.
A Glimpse of You, a Vision
What else was I doing in the kitchen
but watching?
For weeks I stood at the sink
long after the lights of the last car
had crossed the room. It was the end
of summer, and ahead, the hours
were shortening. I listened
in the dark where the curve of the faucet
glowed blue in the moonlight, familiar
& strange, like something
dredged up, like evidence. The wind stirred,
brushed the lowest branches of the oak
close against the houseâand how else explain?âI knew it
the moment before,
then it was happening: You were there, sudden figure
at the window, your face a pale
white bloom, your shadow
vanishing in the yard through leaves.
Her Body in t...