ofamirroredreflection
somewherealongtheline
ofwhatwecallthespine.
Hefeltinmodesty
hispersonwas
halflooking-glass,
forwhyshouldhe
bedoubled?
Theglassmuststretch
downhismiddle,
orratherdowntheedge.
Buthe’sindoubt
astowhichside’sinorout
ofthemirror.
There’slittlemarginforerror,
butthere’snoproof,either.
Andifhalfhishead’sreflected,
thought,hethinks,mightbeaffected.
Buthe’sresigned
tosucheconomicaldesign.
Iftheglassslips
he’sinafix—
onlyoneleg,etc.But
whileitstaysput
hecanwalkandrun
andhishandscanclaspone
another.Theuncertainty
hesayshe
findsexhilarating.Heloves
thatsenseofconstantre-adjustment.
Hewishestobequotedassayingatpresent:
“Halfisenough.”
LargeBadPicture
RememberingtheStraitofBelleIsleor
somenortherlyharborofLabrador,
beforehebecameaschoolteacher
agreat-unclepaintedabigpicture.
Recedingformilesoneitherside
intoaflushed,stillsky
areoverhangingpalebluecliffs
hundredsoffeethigh,
theirbasesfrettedbylittlearches,
theentrancestocaves
runninginalongthelevelofabay
maskedbyperfectwaves.
Onthemiddleofthatquietfloor
sitsafleetofsmallblackships,
square-rigged,sailsfurled,motionless,
theirsparslikeburntmatch-sticks.
Andhighabovethem,overthetallcliffs’
semi-translucentranks,
arescribbledhundredsoffineblackbirds
hangingin n’sinbanks.
Onecanheartheircrying,crying,
theonlysoundthereis
exceptforoccasionalsighing
asalargeaquaticanimalbreathes.
Inthepinklight
thesmallredsungoesrolling,rolling,
roundandroundandroundatthesameheight
inperpetualsunset,comprehensive,consoling,
whiletheshipsconsiderit.
Apparentlytheyhavereachedtheirdestination.
Itwouldbehardtosaywhatbroughtthemthere,
commerceorcontemplation.
FromtheCountrytotheCity
Thelong,longlegs,
league-bootsofland,thatcarrythecitynowhere,nowhere;thelines
thatwedriveon(satin-stripesonharlequin’strousers,tights);
histoughtrunkdressedintatters,scribbledoverwithnonsensicalsigns;
hisshadowy,talldunce-cap;and,bestofallhisshowsandsights,
hisbrainappears,thronedin“fantastictriumph,”andshinesthroughhishat withjeweledworksatworkatintermeshingcrowns,laméwithlights.
Asweapproach,wickedestclown,yourheartandhead,wecanseethat
glitteringarrangementofyourbrainconsists,now,ofmermaid-like,
seated,ravishingsirens,eachwavingherhand-mirror;andwestartat
seriesofslightdisturbancesupinthetelephonewiresontheturnpike.
Flocksofshort,shiningwiresseemtobeflyingsidewise.Aretheybirds?
Theyflashagain.No.Theyarevibrationsofthetuning-forkyouholdandstrike againstthemirror-frames,thendrawformiles,yourdreams,outcountrywards.
Webringamessagefromthelongblacklengthofbody:“Subside,”itbegsand begs.
TheMan-Moth*
Here,above,
cracksinthebuildingsarefilledwithbatteredmoonlight.
ThewholeshadowofManisonlyasbigashishat.
Itliesathisfeetlikeacircleforadolltostandon,
andhemakesaninvertedpin,thepointmagnetizedtothemoon.
Hedoesnotseethemoon;heobservesonlyhervastproperties,
feelingthequeerlightonhishands,neitherwarmnorcold,
ofatemperatureimpossibletorecordinthermometers.
ButwhentheMan-Moth
payshisrare,althoughoccasional,visitstothesurface,
themoonlooksratherdifferenttohim.Heemerges
fromanopeningundertheedgeofoneofthesidewalks
andnervouslybeginstoscalethefacesofthebuildings.
Hethinksthemoonisasmallholeatthetopofthesky,
provingtheskyquiteuselessforprotection.
Hetrembles,butmustinvestigateashighashecanclimb.
Upthefaçades,
hisshadowdragginglikeaphotographer’sclothbehindhim,
heclimbsfearfully,thinkingthatthistimehewillmanage
topushhissmallheadthroughthatroundcleanopening
andbeforcedthrough,asfromatube,inblackscrollsonthelight.
(Man,standingbelowhim,hasnosuchillusions.)
ButwhattheMan-Mothfearsmosthemustdo,although
hefails,ofcourse,andfallsbackscaredbutquiteunhurt.
Thenhereturns
tothepalesubwaysofcementhecallshishome.Heflits,
heflutters,andcannotgetaboardthesilenttrains
fastenoughtosuithim.Thedoorscloseswiftly.
TheMan-Mothalwaysseatshimselffacingthewrongway
andthetrainstartsatonceatitsfull,terriblespeed,
withoutashiftingearsoragradationofanysort.
Hecannottelltherateatwhichhetravelsbackwards.
Eachnighthemust
becarriedthroughartificialtunnelsanddreamrecurrentdreams.
Justasthetiesrecurbeneathhistrain,theseunderlie
hisrushingbrain.Hedoesnotdarelookoutthewindow,
forthethirdrail,theunbrokendraughtofpoison,
runstherebesidehim.Heregardsitasadisease
hehasinheritedthesusceptibilityto.Hehastokeep
hishandsinhispockets,asothersmustwearmufflers.
Ifyoucatchhim,
holdupaflashlighttohiseye.It’salldarkpupil,
anentirenightitself,whosehairedhorizontightens
ashestaresback,andclosesuptheeye.Thenfromthelids
onetear,hisonlypossession,likethebee’ssting,slips.
Slylyhepalmsit,andifyou’renotpayingattention
he’llswallowit.However,ifyouwatch,he’llhanditover;
coolasfromundergroundspringsandpureenoughtodrink.
LoveLiesSleeping
Earliestmorning,switchingallthetracks
thatcrosstheskyfromcinderstartostar,
couplingtheendsofstreets
totrainsoflight,
nowdrawusintodaylightinourbeds;
andclearawaywhatpressesonthebrain:
putouttheneonshapes
thatfloatandswellandglare
downthegrayavenuebetweentheeyes
inpinksandyellows,lettersandtwitchingsigns.
Hang-overmoons,wane,wane!
FromthewindowIsee
animmensecity,carefullyrevealed,
madedelicatebyover-workmanship,
detailupondetail,
corniceuponfaçade
reachingsolanguidlyupinto
aweakwhitesky,itseemstowaverthere.
(Whereithasslowlygrown
inskiesofwater-
glass
fromfusedbeadsofironandcoppercrystals,
thelittlechemical“garden”inajar
tremblesandstandsagain,
paleblue,blue-green,andbrick.)
Thesparrowshurriedlybegintheirplay.
Then,intheWest,“Boom!”andacloudofsmoke.
“Boom!”andtheexplodingball
ofblossombloomsagain.
(Andalltheemployeeswhoworkinplants
wheresuchasoundsays“Danger,”oroncesaid“Death,”
turnintheirsleepandfeel
theshorthairsbristling
onbacksofnecks.)Thecloudofsmokemovesoff.
Ashirtistakenoffathreadlikeclothes-line.
Alongthestreetbelow
thewater-wagoncomes
throwingitshissing,snowyfanacross
peelingsandnewspapers.Thewaterdries
light-dry,dark-wet,thepattern
ofthecoolwatermelon.
Iheartheday-springsofthemorningstrike
fromstonywallsandhallsandironbeds,
scatteredorgroupedcascades,
alarmsfortheexpected:
queercupidsofallpersonsgettingup,
whoseeveningmealtheywillprepareallday,
youwilldinewell
onhisheart,onhis,andhis,
sosendthemaboutyourbusinessaffectionately,
dragginginthestreetstheiruniqueloves.
Scourgethemwithrosesonly,
belightashelium,
foralwaystoone,orseveral,morningcomes,
whoseheadhasfallenovertheedgeofhisbed,
whosefaceisturned
sothattheimageof
thecitygrowsdownintohisopeneyes
invertedanddistorted.No.Imean
distortedandrevealed,
ifheseesitatall.
AMiracleforBreakfast
Atsixo’clockwewerewaitingforcoffee,
waitingforcoffeeandthecharitablecrumb
thatwasgoingtobeservedfromacertainbalcony,
—likekingsofold,orlikeamiracle.
Itwasstilldark.Onefootofthesun
steadieditselfonalongrippleintheriver.
Thefirstferryofthedayhadjustcrossedtheriver.
Itwassocoldwehopedthatthecoffee
wouldbeveryhot,seeingthatthesun
wasnotgoingtowarmus;andthatthecrumb
wouldbealoafeach,buttered,byamiracle.
Atsevenamansteppedoutonthebalcony.
Hestoodforaminutealoneonthebalcony
lookingoverourheadstowardtheriver.
Aservanthandedhimthemakingsofamiracle,
consistingofonelonecupofcoffee
andoneroll,whichheproceededtocrumb,
hishead,sotospeak,intheclouds—alongwiththesun.
Wasthemancrazy?Whatunderthesun
washetryingtodo,upthereonhisbalcony!
Eachmanreceivedoneratherhardcrumb,
whichsomeflickedscornfullyintotheriver,
and,inacup,onedropofthecoffee.
Someofusstoodaround,waitingforthemiracle.
IcantellwhatIsawnext;itwasnotamiracle.
Abeautifulvillastoodinthesun
andfromitsdoorscamethesmellofhotcoffee.
Infront,abaroquewhiteplasterbalcony
addedbybirds,whonestalongtheriver,
—Isawitwithoneeyeclosetothecrumb—
andgalleriesandmarblechambers.Mycrumb
mymansion,madeformebyamiracle,
throughages,byinsects,birds,andtheriver
workingthestone.Everyday,inthesun,
atbreakfasttimeIsitonmybalcony
withmyfeetup,anddrinkgallonsofcoffee.
Welickedupthecrumbandswallowedthecoffee.
Awindowacrosstherivercaughtthesun
asifthemiraclewereworking,onthewrongbalcony.
TheWeed
Idreamedthatdead,andmeditating,
Ilayuponagrave,orbed,
(atleast,somecoldandclose-builtbower).
Inthecoldheart,itsfinalthought
stoodfrozen,drawnimmenseandclear,
stiffandidleasIwasthere;
andweremainedunchangedtogether
forayear,aminute,anhour.
Suddenlytherewasamotion,
asstartling,there,toeverysense
asanexplosion.Thenitdropped
toinsistent,cautiouscreeping
intheregionoftheheart,
proddingmefromdesperatesleep.
Iraisedmyhead.Aslightyoungweed
hadpushedupthroughtheheartandits
greenheadwasnoddingonthebreast.
(Allthiswasinthedark.)
Itgrewaninchlikeabladeofgrass;
next,oneleafshotoutofitsside
atwisting,wavingflag,andthen
twoleavesmovedlikeasemaphore.
Thestemgrewthick.Thenervousroots
reachedtoeachside;thegracefulhead
changeditspositionmysteriously,
sincetherewasneithersunnormoon
tocatchitsyoungattention.
Therootedheartbegantochange
(notbeat)andthenitsplitapart
andfromitbrokeafloodofwater.
Tworiversglancedofffromthesides,
onetotheright,onetotheleft,
tworushing,half-clearstreams,
(theribsmadeofthemtwocascades)
whichassuredly,smoothasglass,
wentoffthroughthefineblackgrainsofearth.
Theweedwasalmostsweptaway;
itstruggledwithitsleaves,
liftingthemfringedwithheavydrops.
Afewdropsfelluponmyface
andinmyeyes,soIcouldsee
(or,inthatblackplace,thoughtIsaw)
thateachdropcontainedalight,
asmall,illuminatedscene;
theweed-deflectedstreamwasmade
itselfofracingimages.
(Asifarivershouldcarryall
shutinitswaters,andnotfloating
onmomentarysurfaces.)
Theweedstoodintheseveredheart.
“Whatareyoudoingthere?”Iasked.
Itlifteditsheadalldrippingwet
(withmyownthoughts?)
andansweredthen:“Igrow,”itsaid,
“buttodivideyourheartagain.”
TheUnbeliever
Hesleepsonthetopofamast.—Bunyan
Hesleepsonthetopofamast
withhiseyesfastclosed.
Thesailsfallawaybelowhim
likethesheetsofhisbed,
leavingoutintheairofthenightthesleeper’shead.
Asleephewastransportedthere,
asleephecurled
inagildedballonthemast’stop,
orclimbedinside
agildedbird,orblindlyseatedhimselfastride.
“Iamfoundedonmarblepillars,”
saidacloud.“Inevermove.
Seethepillarsthereinthesea?”
Secureinintrospection
hepeersatthewaterypillarsofhisreflection.
Agullhadwingsunderhis
andremarkedthattheair
was“likemarble.”Hesaid:“Uphere
Itowerthroughthesky
forthemarblewingsonmytower-topfly.”
Buthesleepsonthetopofhismast
withhiseyesclo
sedtight.
Thegullinquiredintohisdream,
whichwas,“Imustnotfall.
Thespangledseabelowwantsmetofall.
Itishardasdiamonds;itwantstodestroyusall.”
TheMonument
Nowcanyouseethemonument?Itisofwood
builtsomewhatlikeabox.No.Built
likeseveralboxesindescendingsizes
oneabovetheother.
Eachisturnedhalf-wayroundsothat
itscornerspointtowardthesides
oftheonebelowandtheanglesalternate.
Thenonthetopmostcubeisset
asortoffleur-de-lysofweatheredwood,
longpetalsofboard,piercedwithoddholes,
four-sided,stiff,ecclesiastical.
Fromitfourthin,warpedpolesspringout,
(slantedlikefishing-polesorflag-poles)
andfromthemjig-sawworkhangsdown,
fourlinesofvaguelywhittledornament
overtheedgesoftheboxes
totheground.
Themonumentisone-thirdsetagainst
asea;two-thirdsagainstasky.
Theviewisgeared
(thatis,theview’sperspective)
solowthereisno“faraway,”
andwearefarawaywithintheview.
Aseaofnarrow,horizontalboards
liesoutbehindourlonelymonument,
itslonggrainsalternatingrightandleft
likefloor-boards—spotted,swarming-still,
andmotionless.Askyrunsparallel,
anditispalings,coarserthanthesea’s:
splinterysunlightandlong-fibredclouds.
“Whydoesthatstrangeseamakenosound?
Isitbecausewe’refaraway?
Wherearewe?AreweinAsiaMinor,
OrinMongolia?”
Anancientpromontory,
anancientprincipalitywhoseartist-prince
mighthavewantedtobuildamonument
tomarkatomborboundary,ormake
amelancholyorromanticsceneofit…
“Butthatqueersealooksmadeofwood,
half-shining,likeadriftwoodsea.
Andtheskylookswooden,grainedwithcloud.
It’slikeastage-set;itisallsoflat!
Thosecloudsarefullofglisteningsplinters!
Whatisthat?”
Itisthemonument.
“It’spiled-upboxes,
outlinedwithshoddyfret-work,half-fallenoff,
crackedandunpainted.Itlooksold.”
—Thestrongsunlight,thewindfromthesea,
alltheconditionsofitsexistence,
mayhaveflakedoffthepaint,ifeveritwaspainted,