In California

I.
The whole long shore
of cliffs and cuts
my tall ship ran parallel
with the wind.
We saw her billow
in the tide, from land.

The men packed
into longboats - then
I brandished my pistol
and made them go
without me
and I remained
in California.

2.
More birds than needles
on the pines
coves frilled with tule-reeds --

as swells surged in, kelp too
abandoned itself
to the beaches.

Tramping tramping
along yellow hills
trails everywhere
of deer and boar
soon enough
I heard whistling calls

and prayed for generosity
lack of curiosity
other preoccupations than
a ragged limping freeman.

3.
When you sit in the sun
a long while
the ground begins
to move
not like structures
all unstable
but with myriad
small ramblers
spartan ant-lines,
for it is their season,
beetles, and other
divers creatures

on a scale of longing
as great as our own
and some of them take
my blood for dinner.

4.
Stars shot
across the Milky Way
as I lay wrapped
in my coat, forgetting
my hunger.

Then lions came, bobcats,
and men in grass skirts
watched over me.

5.
This trove of nights
brief in time
assuaged my necessity
and lightly one afternoon
in the marsh-glint I fell
from an injury.

Here is how I became
no more. I finished
whatever I came for
and, well-used, eyes open
one boot in the slough
no one but you to tell

pulled the trigger.

6.
Here I come pushing
pushing up
here I come pushing up
from under
breakthrough
breakthrough into light

soil on my cap
again. And rain.

Dreams of the Dead

...

first hiss then boil-bubbles
then silence—even the steam has grown
even the dreams of the dead have risen up the spout
gone to dampen heaven while the kettle-bottom glows

turn off the fire it stays red burns his hand
refuses to sit bland
no longer interested in remaining human

I'm made for heat it says heat me or if you won't
I'll heat myself burn from within consume my metal
liberate a scorching corrosive gas
that sickens this city

...

chill of green
sheep still lying down in mid-morning
tufty fields spotted with dead dreams
of dandelion dots

horses face a still man or
hay rolled into cylinders fat fallen soldiers
in the silver swinging meadow back and forth

I sent money home for years
when they had nothing
now it's neither remembered nor spoken of
it's been a lonely life in London

one afternoon the sun came out
blinking we came streaming from our burrows

dogs ran inflamed through the wood
to meet the stony dream of the burren

...

have you heard of Kafka
capcor I sez he's sitting in front
mispronouncing in a noisy bus no kafcor
I just read The Trial it was really good
too long though I sez

and now I'm starting Meta
morphosis
the bug whose father
yes and sister
and he can't get out the door
runs along the ceiling
develops a taste for slop

he's no longer interested
in remaining human you have to really want it
takes a scientist's interest
in his estrangement and suffering
he's miraculous but without professors

why is the family ashamed
do they know they are as innocent as he

a Mystery from an illuminated manuscript
the Bug of Kells talking through a keyhole
modest he does not want his scuttling observed

are we at Cornmarket yet
one stop past that's ok
it's Christchurch College my subject is philosophy
my fingers are attenuated slender legs
this black eye - don't know from where

the sun comes out showing cold arms

...

later beyond the roof where faerie sheep
lie high in the infinite field
luxuriant hair of a slender chestnut tree

...

buses red with excitement first day
of the new term thronged with the young
parcels in movement on the street
open mailmouths of far corners

brown towers stalagmites from the brick ground
Manchester v. Villareal on the pub telly pint of Stella

and King Alexander and his Queen Emma visit Queen
Victoria together this time walk down Magdalen
and George streets look at each other bug-eyed
we are only ordinary kings and queens

in an incomprehensible city our names anglicized
shake their heads in amazement
walk into O'Neill's for meat stew in a pie crust

why the books they just molder
sez the King they just end up knowing too much
why do they love themselves so tightly
sez the Queen they are too self-controlled

o my only we must sail home our country
is in danger from dreams of the dead
the dead adore power how they sigh as they wake

but their little boy Albert dies
the monarchy dies in chaos broken-hearted
Hawaii falls to terabyte cowboys who run stone banks

who know so much beyond fish and taro—credit cards

...

he finds himself dreaming in a café
he can't get out the door
what is her name - like his wife's
below her curious silver pendant
he'd like to see her breasts

her anxious smile - his confidence
because he loves his wife in Dublin
kids drinking outside and you know
they'll finish with a brawl. she does not drop
her coffee or indifferent mask. his thick

silver hair how he sighs as he dreams

pays the check takes her home
at 4 a.m. finds himself driving
across a long low bridge
headlights stab at him six-car pileup

the following year at the infinite café
he never finds herself again

...

he did come in but could not perform
she unclasps her silver pendant in the bathroom
wishing a burglar would come through
or a fire awe as the dreams flame

I'm leaving now he says dick quiet

she takes scissors cuts off
all her hair takes her fortune from the safe
cuts up the bills throws out the credit cards

walks the night naked dreaming
dreams of the dead

the following year at the infinite café
she cannot come she wants to finish with a brawl

...

Dublin woman loud voice
everyone hears her but him he has
a silver ear
hears a silver fan swinging
at a gallery on a long long cord

she receives a call the man sez the other one is dead
she is dead the man sez can I come home to Dublin o

behind its grille the fan shows silver bug-
eyes squeezed shut as doorknockers
mouth saying go away go away
it swings and swings

the following year no call which is a movement
behind the silver grille

I beg you pass me by

...

plague fire Cromwell the Spanish the Norse
names anglicized Gaelic a reliquary
a skull with pearls dead nun of Galway

brown foamy roil to the bay
under brisk of rain girls showing cold arms
pubs to hold and caress the pipes which wail
for the dead who have passed through estranged
suffering—the poor who have lived short scuttlings

why does their religion make them feel guilty
they are innocent running to their
inadequate towers

o my only these men are too powerful they have parceled
out the country we must leave for America

bay sea world this wet place alone
head not quite above water
swans gulls extinct houses of the rich
struggling on even as the spring tides roll

...

the baby pushes at the streaming vinyl
which leaves her blind
how else can they stroll her through the dark day
wail muffled in Aran wool
her eyes—we can't see her eyes

we see her next at The Black Boy nursing a pint of Guinness
giddy on the knee of a skinny boy holding her
like an armful of fresh barley
pretty legs a bony back

then her own sweet elf
silver rain and more of it
vinyl snapped over the stroller—distant little cries—

...

what is it my only that offends you so you dig and dig
until you strike

my rusty chest

your being extends as far as an armada my only
I beg you pass me by say no more of my weaknesses
your goodness mispronouncing into antique cannonballs

you are early everywhere as I return from dreams
of the dead mispronouncing my love my only
awkward you sail to my breasts no longer
interested in remaining human

dust and commotion from a slack kite-string
dry tongue dragging along the ground
in my windy dreams my only
we must sail home our country

is in danger

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