“Think well of distance”
—Gertrude Stein

I

it’s hard to remember      places you haven’t been

pre-worlds flooded     by their own vague conceptions

breath of existence      light of the moon

time is making a sandwich      and you’re the last bite

or think of certain erosions     rivers collapsing

because their banks don’t hold     in flooding, they lose shape

go all directions at once     company loves misery

but the water’s fierce power     pulls them under, too

in this way only     the flood resembles memory

as it’s losing shape in you     things are carried

away from their roots     or they go under

sodden then forgotten        deep in mud

an alarm clock rings     who remembers what happened

and the fictions we construct    fog lies on the house

and on the ground about it     even the pines are covered

and the wind is mild     the poem watches from a window

her shadow on the lawn      as her husband walking the dog

calls his girlfriend on the phone     this heartbreaking news

is brought to her by weather     lovely in its freshness

a ladder casts its shadow     on a white wall

the half-made and half-gone      build accounts in us

not the thing itself      with its primordial value

but how we see it greenly       the object is oblique

calm and, yes, handsome              it’s what you wanted of it

the lake in relation      to what it is not

it has always been here       always will be

the place historical now       because of its name

people sun in summer      swim among reeds

a small beach muddy     where kids drink beer

at ten each evening           the sheriff drives them home

when the water is high    the surface is smooth

by august, an island            emerges at its center

foundations of cabins         once built there

a tourist haven paradise      poetry enjoys

the concept of an island          where you find yourself stranded

with another sentient being     you blink at each other

see behind those eyes           the lattice-work of cognition

shreds of silken paper        that litter a parade

something’s about to burst     with gravity and intention

our sense of plot demands    sensory fulfillment

a hammer’s for driving nails     to be alone

islanded that is                separated from the all

as it humps along without you     the poem lives next door

with her son, age ten     her husband left last year

with a man, as it turns out     she understands isolation

can barely hear      the burnt toast pop

as she observes a mouse    sniffing along the baseboard

in search of its cat        sadly, it finds it

an orange male      named cheddar

has sneaked into the house      pounces on its victim

the poem observes       this gruesome act alone

tears in her eyes      she has lost the thread

is in the habit, lately       of walking from bed

to kitchen       with nothing on at all

she reads her books    in the breakfast nook

wearing only a blanket    naked poem

dead mouse     cat to whom it matters

and there you have a plot     to haul attention’s freight

that’s the game’s nature    to hold by means of language

each silken contradiction    and still express

what is     the world is threaded with attention

and purposeful things to do    like building a series

of shelves    or reading the archive project

you have to make arrangements      and she

no longer could     the poem found herself

at the end of history    shadow and actor

cast headlong into its cauldron   she has

no private life      must instead experience

all lives at once     all circumstance together

as agent of their making     such finite worlds

lack in rectitude     what they provide in truth

what are poems made of     loose ends of the day

griefs and assertions    love’s ready answers

she could feel her mind    scratching at the building

thought’s needle piercing    an unfamiliar world

squirrels in the eaves      rustle of bats

something measures her life      which has no other measure

to remember, reconcile     when cell phone traffic

is the dominant mode of thinking     and kinds of inattention

make it hard to “world”       the poem understands

memory is the grounding     a secret she keeps

each of us timekeepers        so when the season changes

owls come out of their caves       moths begin to gather

wherever light is on       fifteen different species

on the porch one night       smothering the windows

attention is a realm     memory’s perfect present

she eats a graham cracker    as she stands at the window

she knows these events     will not come again

except through fondness      the flood stage rises

everything running over     song bordering on

its octave      the mu in music and then

the one in muon     murky creatures

shaped by other shapes    something is asserted

in the theater of the actual         one reaches

Rilke’s clearing     in a thick and thwarted wood

light and sound rebound      differently here

muffled thud of a ball     on an indoor court

crowds of leaves     in a rush to get away

on the sidewalk below     a young woman studies

branch and sky       where alphabets begin

ground and foreground    and which is interruptive

brow of the heavens    where we are projected

shot through        with what we mean

the deep water was waiting     before it was ours

she turned the stereo low    the dark would soon be on

Sun Ra speaking         of suns and unisons

dark light as matter     and the handsome page

that takes it       in thicket and clearing

things are full of themselves     her attention stillborn

but she remains its mother     sleeping later every day

each catch and extension     mind’s eyes open

going and going     but we remain here

at the stations we keep      at the thinking turning center

where we remember passage     writing and act

because we fetish them      try to catch

the running ending      she was moved by a force

so present      it might have been herself

emotion and the sun      burn with what might come

the poem sips coffee     hears birdsong as the real

waxen animal magic   the no one in someone

she had been frantic      in Boston and its bars

dated the wrong guys      with all their surface glitter

then came to be herself        except for him, of course

the one who wouldn’t grow       only their son to endear him

perhaps he was happy     desperation and desire

are in us all the way      we leave islands behind us

some of them in ruins     and some

laden with flowers    as when she used to dance

among her mother’s clothes     hanging on the line

fresh smell of earth      and sunshine

praying rain won’t come     Amy wants to cry

Amy underpants      unhappy as a child

truth on her tongue     but out of truth’s reach

ozone after a storm      the sin she’d be in

she knew when she was older      to burn

with furious doubt    too firm a truth somehow

she saw a woman passing    tag on her wrist

blue hospital gown     lost as if to capture

loss itself       the faceless gods lean close

unspeaking driver     on the number 10 bus

who’d insisted       that she touch him

one day at the end of his run      she never told

her parents      their trouble was enough

she parted bead curtains     heard apples fall

swung on a gate      and saw her mother

blush with love      at the touch of her father

too much to tell the world      that knows so little

she thought perhaps     she had fallen as the sun

into a sunlit room      watched goldfish change size

with the thickness of the bowl      childhood has its reasons

the bus on which she traveled      drove into the fog

her own pale image     reflected in the glass

thoughts of a dusty attic    where she would walk on joists

so as not to fall       through the plaster ceiling

into the room below     seeking family treasures

wearing old scarves        bleed not upon the grass

feed the turtledove     what counsel was this

among the old tomes     fall was still crawling

over an old wall     leaving yellow light

léfan means permission     I leaf thee to thyself

you are permitted you     but I am not I

unless you tell me so      to write reading

read writing     a white trackless highway

behind her always     how does snow fall

can you have venus envy      should she write

a book on that      barely not drowning

in what she beholds      must we earn the world

like davening scholars nodding      reading inner texts

with history on our lips           reading her own body

as the map of her time         to overwrite ambition

victory over the sun      and still the grass

grows back     this young woman the poem

twenty-eight to forty     is well-established

cracked yet unbroken     she has nearly settled

into the world of light       habit’s ready slot

no longer seems to fit    she’s shocked each time

by her own cranky shadow     posing at evening

wary at noon       the one that walks with her

when no one else will     on which she never steps

news that stays elusive     aging like her mother

II

she combs her hair with her fingers     smiles

a little strangely    because self-conscious now

that familiar manner    which she has always hated

of taking a second      more critical look at things

no door fully closed    nothing quite at rest                             ,

insane perfection seeker   Jehovah’s Witnesses

ring the bell     such nice people, she insists

they stay for tea    we’re out of tea—oh, well

glasses of lemonade    her initial discussion

of Meister Eckhart    very well received

the German sermons     superior to the Latin

perhaps his earthy idiom      until their faces

darken with boredom    they hasten to the door

depart into the evening     how the time passes

when light radiates     as far as it can go

until the darkness stops it     her son comes home

from school     goes straight to bed—he’s tired

homework perfectly done     where does he find the time

he could use a friend     welcome to the club

half a cheese sandwich     and what is left of the milk

more beautiful than she knows    she has met a man

is it possible after all      tender mercies, real misgivings

all a part of the plan      a little scotch on ice

perhaps instead just sink      the lyrical circle tightens

but not toward closure    the eye of an owl at mouse-time

the more she mothers the page    the younger she feels

until the words are ancient     how to write rest

when the world is moving fast     turning into memory

in the near sleep of the missing      in witness of their gods

where did all the punk rock go     long time passing

within the past-present       no privacy withheld

sadness for miles     then the full arrival

because she’d had to leave him     and would again of course

black garbage bags      filled with tired clothing

clutter the hallway     a ghost in every room

now she stands     between herself and feeling

half knowing half in dread       between is not communion

gods with human mouths     give birth through words

eat us in the end     the continuous present

is not continuous presence     a phone is not a call

hiding in plain sight          is everything we know

wind in the trees      unsettling of the grass

presence that doesn’t insist      astonishes as it must

authors of the sun    like customers at the mall

make us real by passing     by being just themselves

why do we imagine      the floating world as perfect

its archeology constant     dust floats down

layer on layer     the better to see it

there and always there     immortal in its way

we wear ourselves fresh        in living day to day

the old guy has to pay      and the car won’t start

season by season     working without a net

each original action       goes into a file

where you can find it later     gone the smoke rising

that Tuesday of the year     gone that thing, she said

and how she said it     the leaf but not the leaving

only motion endures       the memory of the poem

meets a man engaged in software      in a realm entirely real

a word much overused     meaning active in us

whom she had met online     had a long foreground

to know the things he knows     they used to call it wisdom

he seems to know what’s gone    what remains also

what’s left of a reading      what is simply forgotten

he lives in Santa Cruz     and promises to arrive

with the gift of dinner      his voice on the phone

warm yet circumspect          meaning’s decay becomes us

information fades      as in the old movies

darkening toward an essence     that now is also ours

universal forms       like bones beneath the skin

our theories of expression    inescapable facts

beyond which nothing      a bare place in the mind

synapse and sweet cherry      scent of the gods

we’re ripe for an hour     then past ripeness

rigid with excitement      jittery from our drugs

we seem to have arrived    as observers of some kind

every wall a screen    fraught with the matrix

the human parade     has its own announcer

whose rhythm of importance     has a voice ghost-low

an elegy is upon us     everything in Dolby

the poem has a theory     women are expression

men its meaning     pomposity or substance

by the tone we apply    speakers who want to sing

singers who want to fly    what’s left of private life

we have the full dissection    make me public please

the communal life unbound    the poem rents a tape

when night is too wild    but sometime after dinner

after a night at the movies    before their truest laughter

and sweating in the bed     the memory of the poem

touches her shoulder     her mouth touches his

and now he’s in her      the heat of his decorum

is never at issue     passing through a wood

now they seek conjunction     a sudden conflagration

of whiskey and intention    have put her over the edge

they have told their story     time to die down

wanting most of all     a masochistic calm

all the windows open      the neighbors entertained

but they have learned to love      not like her husband

you never take me out     are you ashamed of me

he enjoys music    that moment in opera

when the grocer starts to sing     one of her students said

it lacks credulity     they have a good laugh

then enact again      a true bodice-ripper

memory and the poem      construct their own souls

no one’s born with one      not the artifice of the poem

not truth either     but the language my god

designed just for us     thousands of years ago

with its many incarnations     white car nations

our wild American setting     tamed by junkyards and gardens

but not the poem      too melancholy my dear

not to be ravaged     by the last thing of her day

the century’s excess came      so early in the fray

solitude of course      is such a bourgeois theme

all those men in prison     writing with dirty fingers

how much of that is brilliant     how much of it gets seen

a carnival of words    tumbling and turning

carnis and levarium     from levare to remove

meat puppets if you will     Brecht and Weill

each Neoplatonic shadow     seeking its own flesh

as in Frankenstein      her spark of life transplanted

in a scientist’s solemn mill     emblem of the masses

in search of a love    that will not be granted

her ear to all the cracks     seeking a language

where she might be found      such was memory’s homeland

from which the poem draws     out of ground or flank

the body of the word      the spaces between things

are also shapes we know    dissonance curved and straight

placates the absolute      words are never empty

never quite filled      but they get you to the store

the poem is cicatricial      let me spell that for you

a seam in flesh       where scars follow healing

you have to pour yourself       into and around her

be for a moment      what she has become

the actual and the act     in a kingdom softened by money

meaning is fate      death is never distant

knows when to pass    and when to embrace us

when the poem rose in the morning     another had been there

his scent on her skin      lyric modulations

last only so long      no matter how interruptive

we want after a time     the world as it is

rivers and mountains     floating in the eye

wit, dross, and error     and other border wars

dissonance, if you miss it     to scream sing and rage

because she really cares     an expert witness

we might confuse with love    come-hither indirections

but then on Somerset Drive    who was it suffered alone

sunlight glints     on wavelets of the stream

because the word holy      means hale or full of holes

free from injury, whole     his touch had been the world

if truly he existed      she has his phone number

somewhere on her desk     that sting of pleasure

had she known such sweetness    in her body

had he touched gold    love is coherence

subdues the infinite      presently

the authentic makes its visit     and artifice that doll

wants to go dancing      we prefer silence

or sounds called silence    like coughing at concerts

or static from a veil    as when a certain voice

rubs up against you    beckoning, it seems

there’s a sense of life’s frailty     how difficult to know

and then express it all     the hard-bitten rabbit

is pulled again from its hat      how bored it seems

and exhausted        by the need to entertain

not every part of the day     has a dazzling interest

the more sublime the words    the less you can trust them

but something brings her     to the ground of attention

she finds with the world      agreement

III

social beings are like snow     swirling on a field

they take shape and dissolve     over and over again

not in expectable patterns    resolved by chaos theory

or any theory at all       let the full bereavement

not be reft from thee     the rain surrenders

the river gathers       the poem finds a world

in the surface tension of water      things are held together

by the distances they keep     reckless molecules

of dust and hazard    what we call the flood

seeks a new containment     form of which we’re fragment

the poem like us     is born of disparate parents

each of them a crossing     the poem has a drink

alone in the bar    perhaps we might approach

but no, she’s quite apart     and our intentions quail

she strides toward the sun     the size of life matters

the poem sees herself       pausing in a mirror

shocked to recognize     a new plane in her face

modernist triptych      furtive look of an English professor

she sleeps for a long time    elsewhere the world is stirring

and rain is falling      on someone’s promised land

where nothing is absurd    in a million rec rooms

electronic meadows     appear onscreen

grazed by blinking sheep    where nature is then

fluttering its leaves    nostalgic for the present

where gray industrial cities    fade like flowers

memory is exactly    what you are doing now

antiquity of the present     exactitude of leaves

when you stop to look at them     we must live our lives

repeatedly you see      writing the present again

holding the same breath     someone you recognize

from a place you’ve never been    lights the same candle

with dreamlike precision      each sentence has

its own docking station      can you hear me in the past

timbre of voice      husky when in love

I work all day     in a cubicle near the airport

the memory of the poem      reports by email

his face transparent     reflected in his screen

what had he desired      saying is believing

he believes in her      struggles to imagine

what will happen now     all her letters dropped

rare into the garden    where they would sit and talk

open nerve of earth       behold the dyer’s hand

time folds over       yet another time

open the doors     see all the people

down through history     and her eyes, her striking eyes

flash green, open      the cell phone throbs in his pocket

because he’s at a meeting     he will pay for the procedure

he’d go with her to the clinic       they had been in love

but there was her son     and he had obligations

nothing ever dies     is one of his theories

city of god, hardly     something cuts a track

into the world      their trial was half begun

beautiful means half-seen     as desire would have it

he would sleep with her             but had to return at night

he seems to know himself     by what he is lacking

two piping birds     in a nest above the cat

things are cracked     wherever he is present

does narrative extend       by linear means only

it spiders along a wall     retreats and advances

circles back to see its work    but somewhere

in the network       a fly is waiting

delayed indulgence      and other delectations

propel the story also    life walks sideways

keeps life in reserve    spiders are admired

for purposive behavior     always building

and often by the door   where struggling with disgust

you have to tear through     now you’re late for work

with webbing in your hair     Abū Tamām wrote

you are not you       and home is not home

the stricter the boundary      the more you know it is gone

had he risked nothing     is freedom carelessness

did he have the thought of fire      as if he were the fire

and if in anguish     he first becomes himself

how would that feel      world is what we know

everything’s familiar      touched a thousand times

he walks from room to room     both eyes closed

touching his objects as if by scent    habit’s secret smile

is a lot like pleasure     intimacy with strangers

is a form of travel     the wind in your face

nerves on fire      the very next day

questions of habitation      he wants a worn circle

to and from the store               locus solus

IV

the poem had lost    the habit of romance

exciting for a while     like candy from a dish

in another person’s house    bad analogy, sorry

too weighted with decorum     turmoil in the parlor

a shabby cosmos      swinging on by

quaintly in balance     and yet people love it

turning, hesitating     it feels like precision

the sentence, too, in balance     runs on eight pistons

we had to dumb it up     before we dumbed it down

her amusements are solemn     reading a book

for instance     everything in rhythm

the fictive is still     the ticket to the riot

time is moving faster     a stunt man soars

the car blows up      exorbitance, she said

parsimony, he replied     follow the yellow footsteps

then the yellow road      plural worlds is an old idea

but there’s never only one     the bruising of the river

ten muddy ducklings      deep welts on her arm

attention is intermittent      look at me talking

awake or asleep              nodding by the fire

no mature person     thinks the case is final

the world is excessive    and yet just enough

she had lived in towns    where the train doesn’t stop

and the tv’s always on      Charlie Parker’s secret

was playing all the notes     a thousand sad-you-sees

in a New York minute     the poem understood

it’s all in the vowels     in consort with the the

it’s all about the flow     sibilant and dentive

is jazz overblown     its calmest statement shakes you

ballad that yearns       no comedy in nature

where was memory now      so many months

and they couldn’t stop touching     but something was going

out of their minds      freedom, too, is obligation

there’s no such thing      as nothing left to lose

the undertow was strong    they had to swim out sideways

months of slant looks       goodbyes before hellos

you knew he was married     what were you thinking

she lost her teaching job     had to find a new one

moved out of state       they said, the northeast

and he’s designing systems     still in Santa Cruz

she had hoped for snow     a fresh new wonder

falling past the lights     then the news came

her son had been playing       on an icy pond

too near the thin places      eventually, they said

they saw what seemed a face    before it drifted off

such a cold evening     in such a small town

what was his name    no one remembers

Sam, someone said     he was called Sam

from the coffee shop     word went out as well

by such knowledge    they were beaten of their speech

more grief in the spring      when the ice melted

and the first white iris       grew overnight

at the house she was selling      just a story finally

no, a vastness      the small college would close

they said, next year     am I possible, thought a professor

am I in the life I have      the possible overwhelming

too far from the real     and where does too much end

thin lines of prescription     ran all over campus

Sam I am, he would sing         Sammy from Miami

the one in Ohio        love brings such danger

all she had was gone            tormenta is the word in Spanish

agony of the storm            then the body was found

nothing was peaceful then      she turned her head away

the end is the beginning          a dog chasing its tail

fog in London, sun in France     scenery matters

the empty house    with its rusted gutter matters

and yet at her age      the poem was pregnant

it belongs of course to Allen     she’d lied about the procedure

would go full term      nor would he ever know

the child would grow without him      in a world

beyond such straits      her empty house lingers

along with her perfume      which the realtor could sense

while unlocking her door       blank windows still reflect

whatever passes before them      a bird sings, sweet

sweet, once more      some years later

in another small town     alone by the road

a young girl stands       waiting for the school bus

someone has combed her hair      ironed her clothes for school

(Image: Uta Barth’s Untitled (98.7), 1998)