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# BOOKS BY RAYMOND CARVER

FICTION

_Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?_

_Furious Seasons and Other Stories_

_What We Talk About When We Talk About Love_

_Cathedral_

_Where I'm Calling From_

POETRY

_Near Klamath_

_Winter Insomnia_

_At Night the Salmon Move_

_Where Water Comes Together with Other Water_

_All of Us_

_Ultramarine_

_A New Path to the Waterfall_

PROSE AND POETRY

_Fires: Essays, Poems, and Stories_

POSTHUMOUSLY PUBLISHED

_Short Cuts: Selected Stories_

_Call If You Need Me: The Uncollected Fiction and Other Prose_

_All of Us: The Collected Poems_

FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EBOOK EDITION, MAY 2015

Copyright © 1984, 1985 by Tess Gallagher

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1985. Subsequently published in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1986.

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Portions of this work first appeared in the following publications: _Crazyhorse, Grand Street, New Letters, The New York Times Magazine, The Ohio Review, The Paris Review, Pequod, Tendril_ , and in limited editions from William B. Ewert, Publisher.

"Happiness," "Money," "Grief," "My Crow," and "For Tess" were first published in _Poetry_.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carver, Raymond.
Where water comes together with other water.

Originally published: New York: Random House, 1985.
I. Title.
[PS3553.A7894W44 1986] 813′.54 85-40679

**Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-394-74327-1**
 **eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-97060-7**

v3.1

# Note to Reader of the eBook Edition

Poetry is made of lines, and therefore it is important that the calibration of the size of the page and font adhere to a size that allows Raymond Carver's original line breaks to appear for the reader.

Raymond Carver was especially particular about his line breaks, so the closest reading experience to his intentions for his poems will be had by adjusting the font-size setting on your e-reader until the line below fits on your screen.

Do me a favor this morning. Draw the curtain and come back to bed.
_for Tess Gallagher_

_and Morris R. Bond_

# CONTENTS

_Cover_

_Other Books by This Author_

_Title Page_

_Copyright_

_Note to Reader of the eBook Edition_

_Dedication_

ONE

Woolworth's, 1954

Radio Waves

Movement

Hominy and Rain

The Road

Fear

Romanticism

The Ashtray

Still Looking Out for Number One

Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

TWO

Happiness

The Old Days

Our First House in Sacramento

Next Year

To My Daughter

Anathema

Energy

Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In

Medicine

Wenas Ridge

Reading

Rain

Money

Aspens

THREE

At Least

The Grant

My Boat

The Poem I Didn't Write

Work

In the Year 2020

The Juggler at _Heaven's Gate_

My Daughter and Apple Pie

Commerce

The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man

A Walk

My Dad's Wallet

FOUR

Ask Him

Next Door

The Caucasus: A Romance

A Forge, and a Scythe

The Pipe

Listening

In Switzerland

FIVE

A Squall

My Crow

The Party

After Rainy Days

Interview

Blood

Tomorrow

Grief

Harley's Swans

SIX

Elk Camp

The Windows of the Summer Vacation Houses

Memory

Away

Music

Plus

All Her Life

The Hat

Late Night With Fog and Horses

Venice

The Eve of Battle

Extirpation

The Catch

My Death

To Begin With

The Cranes

SEVEN

A Haircut

Happiness in Cornwall

Afghanistan

In a Marine Light Near Sequim, Washington

Eagles

Yesterday, Snow

Reading Something in the Restaurant

A Poem Not Against Songbirds

Late Afternoon, April 8, 1984

My Work

The Trestle

For Tess

_About the Author_

# WOOLWORTH'S, 1954

Where this floated up from, or why,

I don't know. But thinking about this

since just after Robert called

telling me he'd be here in a few

minutes to go clamming.

How on my first job I worked

under a man named Sol.

Fifty-some years old, but

a stockboy like I was.

Had worked his way

up to nothing. But grateful

for his job, same as me.

He knew everything there was

to know about that dime-store

merchandise and was willing

to show me. I was sixteen, working

for six bits an hour. Loving it

that I was. Sol taught me

what he knew. He was patient,

though it helped I learned fast.

Most important memory

of that whole time: opening

the cartons of women's lingerie.

Underpants, and soft, clingy things

like that. Taking it out

of cartons by the handful. Something

sweet and mysterious about those

things even then. Sol called it

"linger-ey." "Linger-ey?"

What did I know? I called it

that for a while, too. "Linger-ey."

Then I got older. Quit being

a stockboy. Started pronouncing

that frog word right.

I knew what I was talking about!

Went to taking girls out

in hopes of touching that softness,

slipping down those underpants.

And sometimes it happened. God,

they let me. And they _were_

linger-ey, those underpants.

They tended to linger a little

sometimes, as they slipped down

off the belly, clinging lightly

to the hot white skin.

Passing over the hips and buttocks

and beautiful thighs, traveling

faster now as they crossed the knees,

the calves! Reaching the ankles,

brought together for this

occasion. And kicked free

onto the floor of the car and

forgotten about. Until you had

to look for them.

"Linger-ey."

Those sweet girls!

"Linger a little, for thou art fair."

I know who said that. It fits,

and I'll use it. Robert and his

kids and I out there on the flats

with our buckets and shovels.

His kids, who won't eat clams, cutting

up the whole time, saying "Yuck"

or "Ugh" as clams turned

up in the shovels full of sand

and were tossed into the bucket.

Me thinking all the while

of those early days in Yakima.

And smooth-as-silk underpants.

The lingering kind that Jeanne wore,

and Rita, Muriel, Sue, and her sister,

Cora Mae. All those girls.

Grownup now. Or worse.

I'll say it: dead.

# RADIO WAVES

_for Antonio Machado_

This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.

I don't understand the first thing about radio

waves. But I think they travel better just after

a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out

now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.

Lately, at night, I've found myself

becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics

and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their

music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair

and listen, without having to do anything, or think.

I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading

the papers. At night I turned on the radio.

When I came out here I was trying to get away

from everything. Especially literature.

What that entails, and what comes after.

There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.

For being still. Coupled with this

a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.

But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,

not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.

I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone

and will not return than that which is still

with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.

And if not, that's all right too.

It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.

That's the voice I listened to.

Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?

That it's really all one and the same?

What nonsense!

But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night

as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.

Then, Machado, your poetry!

It was a little like a middle-aged man falling

in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,

and embarrassing, too.

Silly things like putting your picture up.

And I took your book to bed with me

and slept with it near at hand. A train went by

in my dreams one night and woke me up.

And the first thing I thought, heart racing

there in the dark bedroom, was this—

_It's all right, Machado is here_.

Then I could fall back to sleep again.

Today I took your book with me when I went

for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,

when anyone asked what to do with their lives.

So I looked around and made note of everything.

Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place

beside the river where I could see the mountains.

And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound

of the water. Then I opened them and began to read

"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."

This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.

And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,

that you got the message I intended.

But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.

Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.

And then I can tell you these things myself.

# MOVEMENT

Driving lickety-split to make the ferry!

Snow Creek and then Dog Creek

fly by in the headlights.

But the hour's all wrong—no time to think

about the sea-run trout there.

In the lee of the mountains

something on the radio about an old woman

who travels around inside a kettle.

Indigence is at the root of our lives, yes,

but this is not right.

Cut that old woman some slack,

for God's sake.

She's somebody's mother.

You there! It's late. Imagine yourself

with the lid coming down.

The hymns and requiems. The sense of movement

as you're borne along to the next place.

# HOMINY AND RAIN

In a little patch of ground beside

the wall of the Earth Sciences building,

a man in a canvas hat was on

his knees doing something in the rain

with some plants. Piano music

came from an upstairs window

in the building next door. Then

the music stopped.

And the window was brought down.

You told me those white blossoms

on the cherry trees in the Quad

smelled like a can of just-opened

hominy. Hominy. They reminded you

of that. This may or may not

be true. I can't say.

I've lost my sense of smell,

along with any interest I may ever

have expressed in working

on my knees with plants, or

vegetables. There was a barefoot

madman with a ring in his ear

playing his guitar and singing

reggae. I remember that.

Rain puddling around his feet.

The place he'd picked to stand

had Welcome Fear

painted on the sidewalk in red letters.

At the time it seemed important

to recall the man on his knees

in front of his plants.

The blossoms. Music of one kind,

and another. Now I'm not so sure.

I can't say, for sure.

It's a little like some tiny cave-in,

in my brain. There's a sense

that I've lost—not everything,

not everything, but far too much.

A part of my life forever.

Like hominy.

Even though your arm stayed linked

in mine. Even though that. Even

though we stood quietly in the

doorway as the rain picked up.

And watched it without saying

anything. Stood quietly.

At peace, I think. Stood watching

the rain. While the one

with the guitar played on.

# THE ROAD

What a rough night! It's either no dreams at all,

or else a dream that may or may not be

a dream portending loss. Last night I was dropped off

without a word on a country road.

A house back in the hills showed a light

no bigger than a star.

But I was afraid to go there, and kept walking.

Then to wake up to rain striking the glass.

Flowers in a vase near the window.

The smell of coffee, and you touching your hair

with a gesture like someone who has been gone for years.

But there's a piece of bread under the table

near your feet. And a line of ants

moving back and forth from a crack in the floor.

You've stopped smiling.

Do me a favor this morning. Draw the curtain and come back to bed.

Forget the coffee. Well pretend

we're in a foreign country, and in love.

# FEAR

Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.

Fear of falling asleep at night.

Fear of not falling asleep.

Fear of the past rising up.

Fear of the present taking flight.

Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.

Fear of electrical storms.

Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!

Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.

Fear of anxiety!

Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.

Fear of running out of money.

Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.

Fear of psychological profiles.

Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.

Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.

Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.

Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.

Fear of confusion.

Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.

Fear of waking up to find you gone.

Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.

Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.

Fear of death.

Fear of living too long.

Fear of death.

I've said that.

# ROMANTICISM

_(for Linda Gregg, after_

_reading "Classicism")_

The nights are very unclear here.

But if the moon is full, we know it.

We feel one thing one minute,

something else the next.

# THE ASHTRAY

_You could write a story about this_

_ashtray, for example, and a man and a_

_woman. But the man and woman are_

_always the two poles of your story._

_The North Pole and the South. Every_

_story has these two poles—he _and_ she._

_A. P. Chekov_

They're alone at the kitchen table in her friend's

apartment. They'll be alone for another hour, and then

her friend will be back. Outside, it's raining—

the rain coming down like needles, melting last week's

snow. They're smoking and using the ashtray... Maybe

just one of them is smoking... _He's_ smoking! Never

mind. Anyway, the ashtray is filling up with

cigarettes and ashes.

She's ready to break into tears at any minute.

To plead with him, in fact, though she's proud

and has never asked for anything in her life.

He sees what's coming, recognizes the signs—

a catch in her voice as she brings her fingers

to her locket, the one her mother left her.

He pushes back his chair, gets up, goes over to

the window... He wishes it were tomorrow and he

were at the races. He wishes he was out walking,

using his umbrella... He strokes his mustache

and wishes he were anywhere except here. But

he doesn't have any choice in the matter. He's got

to put a good face on this for everybody's sake.

God knows, he never meant for things to come

to this. But it's sink or swim now. A wrong

move and he stands to lose her friend, too.

Her breathing slows. She watches him but

doesn't say anything. She knows, or thinks she

knows, where this is leading. She passes a hand

over her eyes, leans forward and puts her head

in her hands. She's done this a few times

before, but has no idea it's something

that drives him wild. He looks away and grinds

his teeth. He lights a cigarette, shakes out

the match, stands a minute longer at the window.

Then walks back to the table and sits

down with a sigh. He drops the match in the ashtray.

She reaches for his hand, and he lets her

take it. Why not? Where's the harm?

Let her. His mind's made up. She covers his

fingers with kisses, tears fall onto his wrist.

He draws on his cigarette and looks at her

as a man would look indifferently on

a cloud, a tree, or a field of oats at sunset.

He narrows his eyes against the smoke. From time

to time he uses the ashtray as he waits

for her to finish weeping.

# STILL LOOKING OUT FOR NUMBER ONE

Now that you've gone away for five days,

I'll smoke all the cigarettes I want,

where I want. Make biscuits and eat them

with jam and fat bacon. Loaf. Indulge

myself. Walk on the beach if I feel

like it. And I feel like it, alone and

thinking about when I was young. The people

then who loved me beyond reason.

And how I loved them above all others.

Except one. I'm saying I'll do everything

I want here while you're away!

But there's one thing I won't do.

I won't sleep in our bed without you.

No. It doesn't please me to do so.

I'll sleep where I damn well feel like it—

where I sleep best when you're away

and I can't hold you the way I do.

On the broken sofa in my study.

# WHERE WATER COMES
TOGETHER
WITH OTHER WATER

I love creeks and the music they make.

And rills, in glades and meadows, before

they have a chance to become creeks.

I may even love them best of all

for their secrecy. I almost forgot

to say something about the source!

Can anything be more wonderful than a spring?

But the big streams have my heart too.

And the places streams flow into rivers.

The open mouths of rivers where they join the sea.

The places where water comes together

with other water. Those places stand out

in my mind like holy places.

But these coastal rivers!

I love them the way some men love horses

or glamorous women. I have a thing

for this cold swift water.

Just looking at it makes my blood run

and my skin tingle. I could sit

and watch these rivers for hours.

Not one of them like any other.

I'm 45 years old today.

Would anyone believe it if I said

I was once 35?

My heart empty and sere at 35!

Five more years had to pass

before it began to flow again.

I'll take all the time I please this afternoon

before leaving my place alongside this river.

It pleases me, loving rivers.

Loving them all the way back

to their source.

Loving everything that increases me.

# HAPPINESS

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

# THE OLD DAYS

You'd dozed in front of the TV

but you hadn't been to bed yet

when you called. I was asleep,

or nearly, when the phone rang.

You wanted to tell me you'd thrown

a party. And I was missed.

It was like the old days, you

said, and laughed.

Dinner was a disaster.

Everybody dead drunk by the time

food hit the table. People

were having a good

time, a great time, a hell of a time, until

somebody took somebody

else's fiancée upstairs.

Then somebody pulled a knife.

But you got in front of the guy

as he was going upstairs

and talked him down.

Disaster narrowly averted,

you said, and laughed again.

You didn't remember much else

of what happened after that.

People got into their coats

and began to leave. You

must have dropped off for a few

minutes in front of the TV

because it was screaming at you

to get it a drink when you woke up.

Anyway, you're in Pittsburgh,

and I'm in here in this

little town on the other side

of the country. Most everyone

has cleared out of our lives now.

You wanted to call me up and say hello.

To say you were thinking

about me, and of the old days.

To say you were missing me.

It was then I remembered

back to those days and how

telephones used to jump when they rang.

And the people who would come

in those early-morning hours

to pound on the door in alarm.

Never mind the alarm felt inside.

I remembered that, and gravy dinners.

Knives lying around, waiting

for trouble. Going to bed

and hoping I wouldn't wake up.

I love you, Bro, you said.

And then a sob passed

between us. I took hold

of the receiver as if

it were my buddy's arm.

And I wished for us both

I could put my arms

around you, old friend.

I love you too, Bro.

I said that, and then we hung up.

# OUR FIRST HOUSE IN SACRAMENTO

This much is clear to me now—even then

our days were numbered. After our first week

in the house that came furnished

with somebody else's things, a man appeared

one night with a baseball bat. And raised it.

I was not the man he thought I was.

Finally, I got him to believe it.

He wept from frustration after his anger

left him. None of this had anything to do

with Beatlemania. The next week these friends

of ours from the bar where we all drank

brought friends of theirs to our house—

and we played poker. I lost the grocery money

to a stranger. Who went on to quarrel

with his wife. In his frustration

he drove his fist through the kitchen wall.

Then he, too, disappeared from my life forever.

When we left that house where nothing worked

any longer, we left at midnight

with a U-Haul trailer and a lantern.

Who knows what passed through the neighbors' minds

when they saw a family leaving their house

in the middle of the night?

The lantern moving behind the curtainless

windows. The shadows going from room to room,

gathering their things into boxes.

I saw firsthand

what frustration can do to a man.

Make him weep, make him throw his fist

through a wall. Set him to dreaming

of the house that's his

at the end of the long road. A house

filled with music, ease, and generosity.

A house that hasn't been lived in yet.

# NEXT YEAR

That first week in Santa Barbara wasn't the worst thing

to happen. The second week he fell on his head

while drinking, just before he had to lecture.

In the lounge, that second week, she took the microphone

from the singer's hands and crooned her own

torch song. Then danced. And then passed

out on the table. That's not the worst, either. They

went to jail that second week. He wasn't driving

so they booked him, dressed him in pajamas

and stuck him in Detox. Told him to get some sleep.

Told him he could see about his wife in the morning.

But how could he sleep when they wouldn't let him

close the door to his room?

The corridor's green light entered,

and the sound of a man weeping.

His wife had been called upon to give the alphabet

beside the road, in the middle of the night.

This is strange enough. But the cops had her

stand on one leg, close her eyes,

and try to touch her nose with her index finger.

All of which she failed to do.

She went to jail for resisting arrest.

He bailed her out when he got out of Detox.

They drove home in ruins.

This is not the worst. Their daughter had picked that night

to run away from home. She left a note:

"You're both crazy. Give me a break, PLEASE.

Don't come after me."

That's still not the worst. They went on

thinking they were the people they said they were.

Answering to those names.

Making love to the people with those names.

Nights without beginning that had no end.

Talking about a past as if it'd really happened.

Telling themselves that this time next year,

this time next year

things were going to be different.

# TO MY DAUGHTER

_Everything I see will outlive me._

_Anna Akhmatova_

It's too late now to put a curse on you—wish you

plain, say, as Yeats did his daughter. And when

we met her in Sligo, selling her paintings, it'd worked—

she _was_ the plainest, oldest woman in Ireland.

But she was safe.

For the longest time, his reasoning

escaped me. Anyway, it's too late for you,

as I said. You're grownup now, and lovely.

You're a beautiful drunk, daughter.

But you're a drunk. I can't say you're breaking

my heart. I don't have a heart when it comes

to this booze thing. Sad, yes, Christ alone knows.

Your old man, the one they call Shiloh, is back

in town, and the drink has started to flow again.

You've been drunk for three days, you tell me,

when you know goddamn well drinking is like poison

to our family. Didn't your mother and I set you

example enough? Two people

who loved each other knocking each other around,

knocking back the love we felt, glass by empty glass,

curses and blows and betrayals?

You must be crazy! Wasn't all that enough for you?

You want to die? Maybe that's it. Maybe

I think I know you, and I don't.

I'm not kidding, kiddo. Who are you kidding?

Daughter, you can't drink.

The last few times I saw you, you were out of it.

A cast on your collarbone, or else

a splint on your finger, dark glasses to hide

your beautiful bruised eyes. A lip

that a man should kiss instead of split.

Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ!

You've got to take hold now.

Do you hear me? Wake up! You've got to knock it off

and get straight. Clean up your act. I'm asking you.

Okay, telling you. Sure, our family was made

to squander, not collect. But turn this around now.

You simply must—that's all!

Daughter, you can't drink.

It will kill you. Like it did your mother, and me.

Like it did.

# ANATHEMA

The entire household suffered.

My wife, myself, the two children, and the dog

whose puppies were born dead.

Our affairs, such as they were, withered.

My wife was dropped by her lover,

the one-armed teacher of music who was

her only contact with the outside world

and the things of the mind.

My own girlfriend said she couldn't stand it

anymore, and went back to her husband.

The water was shut off.

All that summer the house baked.

The peach trees were blasted.

Our little flower bed lay trampled.

The brakes went out on the car, and the battery

failed. The neighbors quit speaking

to us and closed their doors in our faces.

Checks flew back at us from merchants—

and then mail stopped being delivered

altogether. Only the sheriff got through

from time to time—with one or the other

of our children in the back seat,

pleading to be taken anywhere but here.

And then mice entered the house in droves.

Followed by a bull snake. My wife

found it sunning itself in the living room

next to the dead TV. How she dealt with it

is another matter. Chopped its head off

right there on the floor.

And then chopped it in two when it continued

to writhe. We saw we couldn't hold out

any longer. We were beaten.

We wanted to get down on our knees

and say forgive us our sins, forgive us

our lives. But it was too late.

Too late. No one around would listen.

We had to watch as the house was pulled down,

the ground plowed up, and then

we were dispersed in four directions.

# ENERGY

Last night at my daughter's, near Blaine,

she did her best to tell me

what went wrong

between her mother and me.

"Energy. You two's energy was all wrong."

She looks like her mother

when her mother was young.

Laughs like her.

Moves the drift of hair

from her forehead, like her mother.

Can take a cigarette down

to the filter in three draws,

just like her mother. I thought

this visit would be easy. Wrong.

This is hard, brother. Those years

spilling over into my sleep when I try

to sleep. To wake to find a thousand

cigarettes in the ashtray and every

light in the house burning. I can't

pretend to understand anything:

today I'll be carried

three thousand miles away into

the loving arms of another woman, not

her mother. No. She's caught

in the flywheel of a new love.

I turn off the last light

and close the door.

Moving toward whatever ancient thing

it is that works the chains

and pulls us so relentlessly on.

# LOCKING YOURSELF OUT,
THEN TRYING TO GET
BACK IN

You simply go out and shut the door

without thinking. And when you look back

at what you've done

it's too late. If this sounds

like the story of a life, okay.

It was raining. The neighbors who had

a key were away. I tried and tried

the lower windows. Stared

inside at the sofa, plants, the table

and chairs, the stereo set-up.

My coffee cup and ashtray waited for me

on the glass-topped table, and my heart

went out to them. I said, _Hello, friends_ ,

or something like that. After all,

this wasn't so bad.

Worse things had happened. This

was even a little funny. I found the ladder.

Took that and leaned it against the house.

Then climbed in the rain to the deck,

swung myself over the railing

and tried the door. Which was locked,

of course. But I looked in just the same

at my desk, some papers, and my chair.

This was the window on the other side

of the desk where I'd raise my eyes

and stare out when I sat at that desk.

_This is not like downstairs_ , I thought.

This is something else.

And it was something to look in like that, unseen,

from the deck. To be there, inside, and not be there.

I don't even think I can talk about it.

I brought my face close to the glass

and imagined myself inside,

sitting at the desk. Looking up

from my work now and again.

Thinking about some other place

and some other time.

The people I had loved then.

I stood there for a minute in the rain.

Considering myself to be the luckiest of men.

Even though a wave of grief passed through me.

Even though I felt violently ashamed

of the injury I'd done back then.

I bashed that beautiful window.

And stepped back in.

# MEDICINE

All I know about medicine I picked up

from my doctor friend in El Paso

who drank and took drugs. We were buddies

until I moved East. I'm saying

I was never sick a day in my life.

But something has appeared

on my shoulder and continues to grow.

A wen, I think, and love the word

but not the thing itself, whatever

it is. Late at night my teeth ache

and the phone rings. I'm ill,

unhappy and alone. Lord!

Give me your unsteady knife,

doc. Give me your hand, friend.

# WENAS RIDGE

The seasons turning. Memory flaring.

Three of us that fall. Young hoodlums—

shoplifters, stealers of hubcaps.

Bozos. Dick Miller, dead now.

Lyle Rousseau, son of the Ford dealer.

And I, who'd just made a girl pregnant.

Hunting late into that golden afternoon

for grouse. Following deer paths,

pushing through undergrowth, stepping over

blow-downs. Reaching out for something to hold onto.

At the top of Wenas Ridge

we walked out of pine trees and could see

down deep ravines, where the wind roared, to the river.

More alive then, I thought, than I'd ever be.

But my whole life, in switchbacks, ahead of me.

Hawks, deer, coons we looked at and let go.

Killed six grouse and should have stopped.

Didn't, though we had limits.

Lyle and I climbing fifty feet or so

above Dick Miller. Who screamed—"Yaaaah!"

Then swore and swore. Legs numbing as I saw what.

That fat, dark snake rising up. Beginning to sing.

And how it sang! A timber rattler thick as my wrist.

It'd struck at Miller, but missed. No other way

to say it—he was paralyzed. Could scream, and swear,

not shoot. Then the snake lowered itself from sight

and went in under rocks. We understood

we'd have to get down. In the same way we'd got up.

Blindly crawling through brush, stepping over blow-downs,

pushing into undergrowth. Shadows falling from trees now

onto flat rocks that held the day's heat. And snakes.

My heart stopped, and then started again.

My hair stood on end. This was the moment

my life had prepared me for. And I wasn't ready.

We started down anyway. Jesus, please help me

out of this, I prayed. I'll believe in you again

and honor you always. But Jesus was crowded out

of my head by the vision of that rearing snake.

That singing. Keep believing in me, snake said,

for I will return. I made an obscure, criminal pact

that day. Praying to Jesus in one breath.

To snake in the other. Snake finally more real

to me. The memory of that day

like a blow to the calf now.

I got out, didn't I? But something happened.

I married the girl I loved, yet poisoned her life.

Lies began to coil in my heart and call it home.

Got used to darkness and its crooked ways.

Since then I've always feared rattlesnakes.

Been ambivalent about Jesus.

But someone, something's responsible for this.

Now, as then.

# READING

Every man's life is a mystery, even as

yours is, and mine. Imagine

a château with a window opening

onto Lake Geneva. There in the window

on warm and sunny days is a man

so engrossed in reading he doesn't look

up. Or if he does he marks his place

with a finger, raises his eyes, and peers

across the water to Mont Blanc,

and beyond, to Selah, Washington,

where he is with a girl

and getting drunk _for the first time_.

The last thing he remembers, before

he passes out, is that she spit on him.

He keeps on drinking

and getting spit on for years.

But some people will tell you

that suffering is good for the character.

You're free to believe anything.

In any case, he goes

back to reading and will not

feel guilty about his mother

drifting in her boat of sadness,

or consider his children

and their troubles that go on and on.

Nor does he intend to think about

the clear-eyed woman he once loved

and her defeat at the hands of eastern religion.

Her grief has no beginning, and no end.

Let anyone in the château, or Selah,

come forward who might claim kin with the man

who sits all day in the window reading,

like a picture of a man reading.

Let the sun come forward.

Let the man himself come forward.

What in Hell can he be reading?

# RAIN

Woke up this morning with

a terrific urge to lie in bed all day

and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.

And gave over. Put myself entirely

in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?

Make the same unforgivable mistakes?

Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

# MONEY

In order to be able to live

on the right side of the law.

To always use his own name

and phone number. To go bail

for a friend and not give

a damn if the friend skips town.

Hope, in fact, she does.

To give some money

to his mother. And to his

children and their mother.

Not save it. He wants

to use it up before it's gone.

Buy clothes with it.

Pay the rent and utilities.

Buy food, and then some.

Go out for dinner when he feels like it.

And it's okay

to order anything off the menu!

Buy drugs when he wants.

Buy a car. If it breaks

down, repair it. Or else

buy another. See that

boat? He might buy one

just like it. And sail it

around the Horn, looking

for company. He knows a girl

in Porto Alegre who'd love

to see him in

his own boat, sails full,

turn into the harbor for her.

A fellow who could afford

to come all this way

to see her. Just because

he liked the sound

of her laughter,

and the way she swings her hair.

# ASPENS

Imagine a young man, alone, without anyone.

The moment a few raindrops streaked his glass

he began to scribble.

He lived in a tenement with mice for company.

I loved his bravery.

Someone else a few doors down

played Segovia records all day.

He never left his room, and no one could blame him.

At night he could hear the other's

typewriter going, and feel comforted.

Literature and music.

Everyone dreaming of Spanish horsemen

and courtyards.

Processions. Ceremony, and

resplendence.

Aspen trees.

Days of rain and high water.

Leaves hammered into the ground finally.

In my heart, this plot of earth

that the storm lights.

# AT LEAST

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—I have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what's going to happen.

# THE GRANT

It's either this or bobcat hunting

with my friend Morris.

Trying to write a poem at six this

morning, or else running

behind the hounds with

a rifle in my hands.

Heart jumping in its cage.

I'm 45 years old. No occupation.

Imagine the luxuriousness of this life.

Try and imagine.

May go with him if he goes

tomorrow. But may not.

# MY BOAT

My boat is being made to order. Right now it's about to leave

the hands of its builders. I've reserved a special place

for it down at the marina. It's going to have plenty of room

on it for all my friends: Richard, Bill, Chuck, Toby, Jim, Hayden,

Gary, George, Harold, Don, Dick, Scott, Geoffrey, Jack,

Paul, Jay, Morris, and Alfredo. All my friends! They know who
they are.

Tess, of course. I wouldn't go anyplace without her.

And Kristina, Merry, Catherine, Diane, Sally, Annick, Pat,
Judith, Susie, Lynne, Annie, Jane, Mona.

Doug and Amy! They're family, but they're also my friends,

and they like a good time. There's room on my boat

for just about everyone. I'm serious about this!

There'll be a place on board for everyone's stories.

My own, but also the ones belonging to my friends.

Short stories, and the ones that go on and on. The true

and the made-up. The ones already finished, and the ones still
being written.

Poems, too! Lyric poems, and the longer, darker narratives.

For my painter friends, paints and canvases will be on board
my boat.

We'll have fried chicken, lunch meats, cheeses, rolls,

French bread. Every good thing that my friends and I like.

And a big basket of fruit, in case anyone wants fruit.

In case anyone wants to say he or she ate an apple,

or some grapes, on my boat. Whatever my friends want,

name it, and it'll be there. Soda pop of all kinds.

Beer and wine, sure. No one will be denied anything, on
my boat.

We'll go out into the sunny harbor and have fun, that's the idea.

Just have a good time all around. Not thinking

about this or that or getting ahead or falling behind.

Fishing poles if anyone wants to fish. The fish are out there!

We may even go a little way down the coast, on my boat.

But nothing dangerous, nothing too serious.

The idea is simply to enjoy ourselves and not get scared.

We'll eat and drink and laugh a lot, on my boat.

I've always wanted to take at least one trip like this,

with my friends, on my boat. If we want to

we'll listen to Schumann on the CBC.

But if that doesn't work out, okay,

we'll switch to KRAB, The Who, and the Rolling Stones.

Whatever makes my friends happy! Maybe everyone

will have their own radio, on my boat. In any case,

we're going to have a big time. People are going to have fun,

and do what they want to do, on my boat.

# THE POEM I DIDN'T WRITE

Here is the poem I was going to write

earlier, but didn't

because I heard you stirring.

I was thinking

again about that first morning in Zurich.

How we woke up before sunrise.

Disoriented for a minute. But going

out onto the balcony that looked down

over the river, and the old part of the city.

And simply standing there, speechless.

Nude. Watching the sky lighten.

So thrilled and happy. As if

we'd been put there

just at that moment.

# WORK

_for John Gardner, d. September 14, 1982_

Love of work. The blood singing

in that. The fine high rise

of it into the work. A man says,

I'm working. Or, I worked today.

Or, I'm trying to make it work.

Him working seven days a week.

And being awakened in the morning

by his young wife, his head on the typewriter.

The fullness before work.

The amazed understanding after.

Fastening his helmet.

Climbing onto his motorcycle

and thinking about home.

And work. Yes, work. The going

to what lasts.

# IN THE YEAR 2020

Which of us will be left then—

old, dazed, unclear—

but willing to talk about our dead friends?

Talk and talk, like an old faucet leaking.

So that the young ones,

respectful, touchingly curious,

will find themselves stirred

by the recollections.

By the very mention of this name

or that name, and what we did together.

(As we were respectful, but curious

and excited, to hear someone tell

about the illustrious dead ahead of us.)

Of which of us will they say

to their friends,

he knew so and so! He was friends with

and they spent time together.

He was at that big party.

Everyone was there. They celebrated

and danced until dawn. They put their arms

around each other and danced

until the sun came up.

Now they're all gone.

Of which of us will it be said—

he knew them? Shook hands with them

and embraced them, stayed overnight

in their warm houses. Loved them!

Friends, I do love you, it's true.

And I hope I'm lucky enough, privileged enough,

to live on and bear witness.

Believe me, I'll say only the most

glorious things about you and our time here!

For the survivor there has to be something

to look forward to. Growing old,

losing everything and everybody.

# THE JUGGLER AT
 _HEAVEN'S GATE_

_for Michael Cimino_

Behind the dirty table where Kristofferson is having

breakfast, there's a window that looks onto a nineteenth-

century street in Sweetwater, Wyoming. A juggler

is at work out there, wearing a top hat and a frock coat,

a little reed of a fellow keeping three sticks

in the air. Think about this for a minute.

This juggler. This amazing act of the mind and hands.

A man who juggles for a living.

Everyone in his time has known a star,

or a gunfighter. Somebody, anyway, who pushes somebody

around. But a juggler! Blue smoke hangs inside

this awful café, and over that dirty table where two

grownup men talk about a woman's future. And something,

something about the Cattlemen's Association.

But the eye keeps going back to that juggler.

That tiny spectacle. At this minute, Ella's plight

or the fate of the emigrants

is not nearly so important as this juggler's exploits.

How'd _he_ get into the act, anyway? What's his story?

That's the story I want to know. Anybody

can wear a gun and swagger around. Or fall in love

with somebody who loves somebody else. But to _juggle_

for God's sake! To give your life to that.

To go with that. Juggling.

# MY DAUGHTER AND APPLE PIE

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes

out of the oven. A little steam rises

from the slits on top. Sugar and spice—

cinnamon—burned into the crust.

But she's wearing these dark glasses

in the kitchen at ten o'clock

in the morning—everything nice—

as she watches me break off

a piece, bring it to my mouth,

and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen,

in winter. I fork the pie in

and tell myself to stay out of it.

She says she loves him. No way

could it be worse.

# COMMERCE

A swank dinner. Food truly wonderful

and plenty of it. It was the way I always dreamed

it would be. And it just kept coming

while we talked about the bottom line.

Even when we weren't talking about it,

it was there—in the oysters, the lamb,

the sauces, the fine white linen, the cutlery

and goblets. It said, Here is your life, enjoy.

This is the poem I wanted to live to write! Then

to come upon the spirit in a flaming dessert—

the streaks of fire shooting up, only to drop

back, as if exhausted.

Driving home afterwards, my head aswim

from overeating. What a swine! I deserve

everything that fellow's going to say about me.

Falling asleep in my pants on top of the covers.

But not before thinking about wolves,

a sultry day in the woods.

My life staked down in the clearing.

When I try to turn my head to reveal

the fleshy neck, I can't move.

I don't have the energy. Let them go

for the belly, those brother wolves

with the burning eyes.

To have come this far in a single night!

But then I never knew when to stop.

# THE FISHING POLE OF
THE DROWNED MAN

I didn't want to use it at first.

Then I thought, no, it would

give up secrets and bring me luck—

that's what I needed then.

Besides, he'd left it behind for me

to use when he went swimming that time.

Shortly afterwards, I met two women.

One of them loved opera and the other

was a drunk who'd done time

in jail. I took up with one

and began to drink and fight a lot.

The way this woman could sing and carry on!

We went straight to the bottom.

# A WALK

I took a walk on the railroad track.

Followed that for a while

and got off at the country graveyard

where a man sleeps between

two wives. Emily van der Zee,

Loving Wife and Mother,

is at John van der Zee's right.

Mary, the second Mrs. van der Zee,

also a Loving Wife, to his left.

First Emily went, then Mary.

After a few years, the old fellow himself.

Eleven children came from these unions.

And they, too, would all have to be dead now.

This is a quiet place. As good a place as any

to break my walk, sit, and provide against

my own death, which comes on.

But I don't understand, and I don't understand.

All I know about this fine, sweaty life,

my own or anyone else's,

is that in a little while I'll rise up

and leave this astonishing place

that gives shelter to dead people. This graveyard.

And go. Walking first on one rail

and then the other.

# MY DAD'S WALLET

Long before he thought of his own death,

my dad said he wanted to lie close

to his parents. He missed them so

after they went away.

He said this enough that my mother remembered,

and I remembered. But when the breath

left his lungs and all signs of life

had faded, he found himself in a town

512 miles away from where he wanted most to be.

My dad, though. He was restless

even in death. Even in death

he had this one last trip to take.

All his life he liked to wander,

and now he had one more place to get to.

The undertaker said he'd arrange it,

not to worry. Some poor light

from the window fell on the dusty floor

where we waited that afternoon

until the man came out of the back room

and peeled off his rubber gloves.

He carried the smell of formaldehyde with him.

_He was a big man_ , this undertaker said.

Then began to tell us why

he liked living in this small town.

This man who'd just opened my dad's veins.

_How much is it going to cost?_ I said.

He took out his pad and pen and began

to write. First, the preparation charges.

Then he figured the transportation

of the remains at 22 cents a mile.

But this was a round-trip for the undertaker,

don't forget. Plus, say, six meals

and two nights in a motel. He figured

some more. Add a surcharge of

$210 for his time and trouble,

and there you have it.

He thought we might argue.

There was a spot of color on

each of his cheeks as he looked up

from his figures. The same poor light

fell in the same poor place on

the dusty floor. My mother nodded

as if she understood. But she

hadn't understood a word of it.

None of it had made any sense to her,

beginning with the time she left home

with my dad. She only knew

that whatever was happening

was going to take money.

She reached into her purse and brought up

my dad's wallet. The three of us

in that little room that afternoon.

Our breath coming and going.

We stared at the wallet for a minute.

Nobody said anything.

All the life had gone out of that wallet.

It was old and rent and soiled.

But it was my dad's wallet. And she opened

it and looked inside. Drew out

a handful of money that would go

toward this last, most astounding, trip.

# ASK HIM

Reluctantly, my son goes with me

through the iron gates

of the cemetery in Montparnasse.

"What a way to spend a day in Paris!"

is what he'd like to say. Did, in fact, say.

He speaks French. Has started a conversation

with a white-haired guard who offers himself

as our informal guide. So we move slowly,

the three of us, along row upon row of graves.

Everyone, it seems, is here.

It's quiet, and hot, and the street sounds

of Paris can't reach. The guard wants

to steer us to the grave of the man who invented the submarine,

and Maurice Chevalier's grave. And the grave

of the 28-year-old singer, Nonnie,

covered with a mound of red roses.

I want to see the graves of the writers.

My son sighs. He doesn't want to see any of it.

Has seen enough. He's passed beyond boredom

into resignation. Guy de Maupassant; Sartre; Sainte-Beuve;

Gautier; the Goncourts; Paul Verlaine and his old comrade,

Charles Baudelaire. Where we linger.

None of these names, or graves, have anything to do

with the untroubled lives of my son and the guard.

Who can this morning talk and joke together

in the French language under a fine sun.

But there are several names chiseled on Baudelaire's stone,

and I can't understand why.

Charles Baudelaire's name is between that of his mother,

who loaned him money and worried all her life

about his health, and his stepfather, a martinet

he hated and who hated him and everything he stood for.

"Ask your friend," I say. So my son asks.

It's as if he and the guard are old friends now,

and I'm there to be humored.

The guard says something and then lays

one hand over the other. Like that. Does it

again. One hand over the other. Grinning. Shrugging.

My son translates. But I understand.

"Like a sandwich, Pop," my son says. "A Baudelaire sandwich."

At which the three of us walk on.

The guard would as soon be doing this as something else.

He lights his pipe. Looks at his watch. It's almost time

for his lunch, and a glass of wine.

"Ask him," I say, "if he wants to be buried

in this cemetery when he dies.

Ask him where he wants to be buried."

My son is capable of saying anything.

I recognize the words _tombeau_ and _mort_

in his mouth. The guard stops.

It's clear his thoughts have been elsewhere.

Underwater warfare. The music hall, the cinema.

Something to eat and the glass of wine.

Not corruption, no, and the falling away.

Not annihilation. Not his death.

He looks from one to the other of us.

Who are we kidding? Are we making a bad joke?

He salutes and walks away.

Heading for a table at an outdoor café.

Where he can take off his cap, run his fingers

through his hair. Hear laughter and voices.

The heavy clink of silverware. The ringing

of glasses. Sun on the windows.

Sun on the sidewalk and in the leaves.

Sun finding its way onto his table. His glass. His hands.

# NEXT DOOR

The woman asked us in for pie. Started

telling about her husband, the man who

used to live there. How he had to be carted

off to the nursing home. He wanted

to cover this fine oak ceiling

with cheap insulation, she said. That was the first

sign of anything being wrong. Then he had

a stroke. A vegetable now. Anyway,

next, the game warden stuck the barrel

of his pistol into her son's ear.

And cocked the hammer. But the kid

wasn't doing that much wrong, and the game

warden is the kid's uncle, don't you see?

So everybody's on the outs. Everybody's

nuts and nobody's speaking to anybody

these days. Here's a big bone the son

found at the mouth of the river.

Maybe it's a human bone? An arm bone

or something? She puts it back on the windowsill

next to a bowl of flowers.

The daughter stays in her room all day,

writing poems about her attempted suicide.

That's why we don't see

her. Nobody sees her anymore. She tears up the poems

and writes them over again. But one of these

days she'll get it right. Would you believe it—

the car threw a rod? That black car

that stands like a hearse

in the yard next door. The engine winched out,

swinging from a tree.

# THE CAUCASUS: A ROMANCE

Each evening an eagle soars down from the snowy

crags and passes over camp. It wants to see

if it's true what they say back in Russia: the only

career open to young men these days

is the military. Young men of good family, and a few

others—older, silent men—men who've blotted their

copybooks, as they call it out here. Men like

the Colonel, who lost his ear in a duel.

Dense forests of pine, alder, and birch. Torrents

that fall from dizzying precipices. Mist. Clamorous

rivers. Mountains covered with snow even now, even

in August. Everywhere, as far as the eye can reach,

profusion. A sea of poppies. Wild buckwheat that

shimmers in the heat, that waves and rolls to the horizon.

Panthers. Bees as big as a boy's fist. Bears that won't

get out of a man's way, that will tear a body to

pieces and then go back to the business of rooting

and chuffing like hogs in the rich undergrowth. Clouds

of white butterflies that rise, then settle and

rise again on slopes thick with lilac and fern.

Now and then a real engagement with the enemy.

Much howling from their side, cries, the drum

of horses' hooves, rattle of musket fire, a Chechen's ball

smashing into a man's breast, a stain that blossoms

and spreads, that ripples over the white uniform like crimson

petals opening. Then the chase begins: hearts racing,

minds emptying out entirely as the emperor's young

men, dandies all, gallop over plains, laughing,

yelling their lungs out. Or else they urge

their lathered horses along forest trails, pistols

ready. They burn Chechen crops, kill Chechen stock,

knock down the pitiful villages. They're soldiers,

after all, and these are not maneuvers. Shamil,

the bandit chieftain, he's the one they want most.

At night, a moon broad and deep as a serving dish

sallies out from behind the peaks. But this

moon is only for appearance's sake. Really, it's

armed to the teeth, like everything else out here.

When the Colonel sleeps, he dreams of a drawing room—

one drawing room in particular—oh, clean and elegant,

most comfortable drawing room! Where friends lounge

in plush chairs, or on divans, and drink from

little glasses of tea. In the dream, it is always

Thursday, 2–4. There is a piano next to the window

that looks out on Nevsky Prospect. A young woman

finishes playing, pauses, and turns to the polite

applause. But in the dream it is the Circassian

woman with a saber cut across her face. His friends

draw back in horror. They lower their eyes, bow,

and begin taking their leave. Goodbye, goodbye,

they mutter. In Petersburg they said that out here,

_in the Caucasus_ , sunsets are everything.

But this is not true; sunsets are not enough.

In Petersburg they said the Caucasus is a country that gives

rise to legend, where heroes are born every day.

They said, long ago, in Petersburg, that reputations

were made, and lost, in the Caucasus. _A gravely_

_beautiful place_ , as one of the Colonel's men put it.

The officers serving under him will return

home soon, and more young men will come to take

their places. After the new arrivals dismount

to pay their respects, the Colonel will keep them

waiting a time. Then fix them with a stern but

fatherly gaze, these slim young men with tiny

mustaches and boisterous high spirits, who look

at him and wonder, who ask themselves what it is

he's running from. But he's not running. He likes it

here, in the Caucasus, after a fashion. He's even

grown used to it—or nearly. There's plenty to do,

God knows. Plenty of grim work in the days, and months,

ahead. Shamil is out there in the mountains somewhere—

or maybe he's on the Steppes. The scenery is lovely,

you can be sure, and this but a rough record

of the actual and the passing.

# A FORGE, AND A SCYTHE

One minute I had the windows open

and the sun was out. Warm breezes

blew through the room.

(I remarked on this in a letter.)

Then, while I watched, it grew dark.

The water began whitecapping.

All the sport-fishing boats turned

and headed in, a little fleet.

Those wind-chimes on the porch

blew down. The tops of our trees shook.

The stove pipe squeaked and rattled

around in its moorings.

I said, "A forge, and a scythe."

I talk to myself like this.

Saying the names of things—

_capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace_.

Your face, your mouth, your shoulder

inconceivable to me now!

Where did they go? It's like

I dreamed them. The stones we brought

home from the beach lie face up

on the windowsill, cooling.

Come home. Do you hear?

My lungs are thick with the smoke

of your absence.

# THE PIPE

The next poem I write will have firewood

right in the middle of it, firewood so thick

with pitch my friend will leave behind

his gloves and tell me, "Wear these when you

handle that stuff." The next poem

will have night in it, too, and all the stars

in the western hemisphere; and an immense body

of water shining for miles under a new moon.

The next poem will have a bedroom

and living room for itself, skylights,

a sofa, a table and chairs by the window,

a vase of violets cut just an hour before lunch.

There'll be a lamp burning in the next poem;

and a fireplace where pitch-soaked

blocks of fir flame up, consuming one another.

Oh, the next poem will throw sparks!

But there won't be any cigarettes in that poem.

I'll take up smoking the pipe.

# LISTENING

It was a night like all the others. Empty

of everything save memory. He thought

he'd got to the other side of things.

But he hadn't. He read a little

and listened to the radio. Looked out the window

for a while. Then went upstairs. In bed

realized he'd left the radio on.

But closed his eyes anyway. Inside the deep night,

as the house sailed west, he woke up

to hear voices murmuring. And froze.

Then understood it was only the radio.

He got up and went downstairs. He had

to pee anyway. A little rain

that hadn't been there before was

falling outside. The voices

on the radio faded and then came back

as if from a long way. It wasn't

the same station any longer. A man's voice

said something about Borodin,

and his opera _Prince Igor_. The woman

he said this to agreed, and laughed.

Began to tell a little of the story.

The man's hand drew back from the switch.

Once more he found himself in the presence

of mystery. Rain. Laughter. History.

Art. The hegemony of death.

He stood there, listening.

# IN SWITZERLAND

First thing to do in Zurich

is take the No. 5 "Zoo" trolley

to the end of the track,

and get off. Been warned about

the lions. How their roars

carry over from the zoo compound

to the Flutern Cemetery.

Where I walk along

the very beautiful path

to James Joyce's grave.

Always the family man, he's here

with his wife, Nora, of course.

And his son, Giorgio,

who died a few years ago.

Lucia, his daughter, his sorrow,

still alive, still confined

in an institution for the insane.

When she was brought the news

of her father's death, she said:

_What is he doing under the ground, that idiot?_

_When will he decide to come out?_

_He's watching us all the time_.

I lingered a while. I think

I said something aloud to Mr. Joyce.

I must have. I know I must have.

But I don't recall what,

now, and I'll have to leave it at that.

A week later to the day, we depart

Zurich by train for Lucerne.

But early that morning I take

the No. 5 trolley once more

to the end of the line.

The roar of the lions falls over

the cemetery, as before.

The grass has been cut.

I sit on it for a while and smoke.

Just feels good to be there,

close to the grave. I didn't

have to say anything this time.

That night we gambled at the tables

at the Grand Hotel-Casino

on the very shore of Lake Lucerne.

Took in a strip show later.

But what to do with the memory

of that grave that came to me

in the midst of the show,

under the muted, pink stage light?

Nothing to do about it.

Or about the desire that came later,

crowding everything else out,

like a wave.

Still later, we sit on a bench

under some linden trees, under stars.

Made love with each other.

Reaching into each other's clothes for it.

The lake a few steps away.

Afterwards, dipped our hands

into the cold water.

Then walked back to our hotel,

happy and tired, ready to sleep

for eight hours.

All of us, all of us, all of us

trying to save

our immortal souls, some ways

seemingly more round-

about and mysterious

than others. We're having

a good time here. But hope

all will be revealed soon.

# A SQUALL

Shortly after three P.M. today a squall

hit the calm waters of the Strait.

A black cloud moving fast,

carrying rain, driven by high winds.

The water rose up and turned white.

Then, in five minutes, was as before—

blue and most remarkable, with just

a little chop. It occurs to me

it was this kind of squall

that came upon Shelley and his friend,

Williams, in the Gulf of Spezia, on

an otherwise fine day. There they were,

running ahead of a smart breeze,

wind-jamming, crying out to each other,

I want to think, in sheer exuberance.

In Shelley's jacket pockets, Keats's poems,

and a volume of Sophocles!

Then something like smoke on the water.

A black cloud moving fast,

carrying rain, driven by high winds.

Black cloud

hastening along the end

of the first romantic period

in English poetry.

# MY CROW

A crow flew into the tree outside my window.

It was not Ted Hughes's crow, or Galway's crow.

Or Frost's, Pasternak's, or Lorca's crow.

Or one of Homer's crows, stuffed with gore,

after the battle. This was just a crow.

That never fit in anywhere in its life,

or did anything worth mentioning.

It sat there on the branch for a few minutes.

Then picked up and flew beautifully

out of my life.

# THE PARTY

Last night, alone, 3000 miles away from the one

I love, I turned the radio on to some jazz

and made a huge bowl of popcorn

with lots of salt on it. Poured butter over it.

Turned out the lights and sat in a chair

in front of the window with the popcorn and

a can of Coke. Forgot everything important

in the world while I ate popcorn and looked out

at a heavy sea, and the lights of town.

The popcorn runny with butter, covered with

salt. I ate it up until there was nothing

left except a few Old Maids. Then

washed my hands. Smoked a couple more cigarettes

while I listened to the beat of the little

music that was left. Things had quieted way down,

though the sea was still running. Wind gave

the house a last shake when I rose

and took three steps, turned, took three more steps, turned.

Then I went to bed and slept wonderfully,

as always. My God, what a life!

But I thought I should explain, leave a note anyhow,

about this mess in the living room

and what went on here last night. Just in case

_my_ lights went out, and I keeled over.

Yes, there was a party here last night.

And the radio's still on. Okay.

But if I die today, I die happy—thinking

of my sweetheart, and of that last popcorn.

# AFTER RAINY DAYS

After rainy days and the same serious doubts—

strange to walk past the golf course,

sun overhead, men putting, or teeing, whatever

they do on those green links. To the river that flows

past the clubhouse. Expensive houses on either side

of the river, a dog barking at this kid

who revs his motorcycle. To see a man fighting

a large salmon in the water just below

the footbridge. Where a couple of joggers have stopped

to watch. Never in my life have I seen anything

like this! Stay with him, I think, breaking

into a run. For Christ's sake, man, hold on!

# INTERVIEW

Talking about myself all day

brought back

something I thought over and

done with. What I'd felt

for Maryann—Anna, she calls

herself now—all those years.

I went to draw a glass of water.

Stood at the window for a time.

When I came back

we passed easily to the next thing.

Went on with my life. But

that memory entering like a spike.

# BLOOD

We were five at the craps table

not counting the croupier

and his assistant. The man

next to me had the dice

cupped in his hand.

He blew on his fingers, said

Come _on_ , baby! And leaned

over the table to throw.

At that moment, bright blood rushed

from his nose, spattering

the green felt cloth. He dropped

the dice. Stepped back amazed.

And then terrified as blood

ran down his shirt. God,

what's happening to me?

he cried. Took hold of my arm.

I heard Death's engines turning.

But I was young at the time,

and drunk, and wanted to play.

I didn't have to listen.

So I walked away. Didn't turn back, ever,

or find this in my head, until today.

# TOMORROW

Cigarette smoke hanging on

in the living room. The ship's lights

out on the water, dimming. The stars

burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.

But it's all right, they're supposed to do that.

Those lights we call stars.

Burn for a time and then die.

Me hell-bent. Wishing

it were tomorrow already.

I remember my mother, God love her,

saying, Don't wish for tomorrow.

You're wishing your life away.

Nevertheless, I wish

for tomorrow. In all its finery.

I want sleep to come and go, smoothly.

Like passing out of the door of one car

into another. And then to wake up!

Find tomorrow in my bedroom.

I'm more tired now than I can say.

My bowl is empty. But it's my bowl, you see,

and I love it.

# GRIEF

Woke up early this morning and from my bed

looked far across the Strait to see

a small boat moving through the choppy water,

a single running light on. Remembered

my friend who used to shout

his dead wife's name from hilltops

around Perugia. Who set a plate

for her at his simple table long after

she was gone. And opened the windows

so she could have fresh air. Such display

I found embarrassing. So did his other

friends. I couldn't see it.

Not until this morning.

# HARLEY'S SWANS

_I'm trying again. A man has to begin_

_over and over—to try to think and feel_

_only in a very limited field, the house_

_on the street, the man at the corner drug store._

— _Sherwood Anderson, from a letter_

Anderson, I thought of you when I loitered

in front of the drug store this afternoon.

Held onto my hat in the wind and looked down

the street for my boyhood. Remembered my dad

taking me to get haircuts—

that rack of antlers mounted on a wall

next to the calendar picture of a rainbow

trout leaping clear of the water

with a hook in its jaw. My mother.

How she went with me to pick out

school clothes. That part embarrassing

because I needed to shop in men's wear

for man-sized pants and shirts.

Nobody, then, who could love me,

the fattest kid on the block, except my parents.

So I quit looking and went inside.

Had a Coke at the soda fountain

where I gave some thought to betrayal.

How that part always came easy.

It was what came after that was hard.

I didn't think about you anymore, Anderson.

You'd come and gone in an instant.

But I remembered, there at the fountain,

Harley's swans. How they got there

I don't know. But one morning he was taking

his school bus along a country road

when he came across 21 of them just down

from Canada. Out on this pond

in a farmer's field. He brought his school bus

to a stop, and then he and his grade-schoolers

just looked at them for a while and felt good.

I finished the Coke and drove home.

It was almost dark now. The house

quiet and empty. The way

I always thought I wanted it to be.

The wind blew hard all day.

Blew everything away, or nearly.

But still this feeling of shame and loss.

Even though the wind ought to lay now

and the moon come out soon, if this is

anything like the other nights.

I'm here in the house. And I want to try again.

You, of all people, Anderson, can understand.

# ELK CAMP

Everyone else sleeping when I step

to the door of our tent. Overhead,

stars brighter than stars ever were

in my life. And farther away.

The November moon driving

a few dark clouds over the valley.

The Olympic Range beyond.

I believed I could smell the snow that was coming.

Our horses feeding inside

the little rope corral we'd thrown up.

From the side of the hill the sound

of spring water. Our spring water.

Wind passing in the tops of the fir trees.

I'd never smelled a forest before that

night, either. Remembered reading how

Henry Hudson and his sailors smelled

the forests of the New World

from miles out at sea. And then the next thought—

I could gladly live the rest of my life

and never pick up another book.

I looked at my hands in the moonlight

and understood there wasn't a man,

woman, or child I could lift a finger

for that night. I turned back and lay

down then in my sleeping bag.

But my eyes wouldn't close.

The next day I found cougar scat

and elk droppings. But though I rode

a horse all over that country,

up and down hills, through clouds

and along old logging roads,

I never saw an elk. Which was

fine by me. Still, I was ready.

Lost to everyone, a rifle strapped

to my shoulder. I think maybe

I could have killed one.

Would have shot at one, anyway.

Aimed just where I'd been told—

behind the shoulder at the heart

and lungs. "They might run,

but they won't run far.

Look at it this way," my friend said.

"How far would you run with a piece

of lead in your heart?" That depends,

my friend. That depends. But that day

I could have pulled the trigger

on anything. Or not.

Nothing mattered anymore

except getting back to camp

before dark. Wonderful

to live this way! Where nothing

mattered more than anything else.

I saw myself through and through.

And I understood something, too,

as my life flew back to me there in the woods.

And then we packed out. Where the first

thing I did was take a hot bath.

And then reach for this book.

Grow cold and unrelenting once more.

Heartless. Every nerve alert.

Ready to kill, or not.

# THE WINDOWS OF THE
SUMMER VACATION HOUSES

They withheld judgment, looking down at us

silently, in the rain, in our little boat—

as three lines went into the dark water

for salmon. I'm talking of the Hood Canal

in March, when the rain won't let up.

Which was fine by me. I was happy

to be on the water, trying out

new gear. I heard of the death,

by drowning, of a man I didn't know.

And the death in the woods of another,

hit by a snag. _They don't call them_

_widow-makers for nothing_.

Hunting stories of bear,

elk, deer, cougar—taken in and out

of season. More hunting stories.

Women, this time. And this time

I could join in. It used to be girls.

Girls of 15, 16, 17, 18—and we

the same age. Now it was women. And married

women at that. No longer girls. Women.

Somebody or other's wife. The mayor

of this town, for instance. His wife.

Taken. The deputy sheriff's wife, the same.

_But he's an asshole, anyway_.

Even a brother's wife. _It's not anything_

_to be proud of, hut somebody had to go_

_and do his homework for him_. We caught

two small ones, and talked a lot, and laughed.

But as we turned in to the landing

a light went on in one of those houses

where nobody was supposed to be.

Smoke drifted up from the chimney

of this place we'd looked at as empty.

And suddenly, like that—I remembered Maryann.

When we were both young.

The rare coin of those mint days!

It was there and gone

by the time we hooked the boat to the trailer.

But it was something to recall.

It turned dark as I watched the figure

move to stand at the window and look

down. And I knew then those things that happened

so long ago must have happened, but not

to us. No, I don't think people could go on living

if they had lived those things. It couldn't

have been us.

The people I'm talking about—I'm sure

I must have read about somewhere.

They were not the main characters, no,

as I'd thought at first and for a long

while after. But some others you

sympathized with, even loved, and cried for—

just before they were taken away

to be hanged, or put somewhere.

We drove off without looking back

at the houses. Last night

I cleaned fish in the kitchen.

This morning it was still dark

when I made coffee. And found blood

on the porcelain sides of the sink.

More blood on the counter. A trail

of it. Drops of blood on the bottom

of the refrigerator where the fish

lay wrapped and gutted.

Everywhere this blood. Mingling with thoughts

in my mind of the time we'd had—

that dear young wife, and I.

# MEMORY

Cutting the stems from a quart

basket of strawberries—the first

this spring—looking forward to how

I would eat them tonight, when I was

alone, for a treat (Tess being away),

I remembered I forgot to pass along

a message to her when we talked:

somebody whose name I forget

called to say Susan Powell's

grandmother had died, suddenly.

Went on working with the strawberries.

But remembered, too, driving back

from the store. A little girl

on roller skates being pulled along

the road by this big friendly-

looking dog. I waved to her.

She waved back. And called out

sharply to her dog, who kept

trying to nose around

in the sweet ditch grass.

It's nearly dark outside now.

Strawberries are chilling.

A little later on, when I eat them,

I'll be reminded again—in no particular

order—of Tess, the little girl, a dog,

roller skates, memory, death, etc.

# AWAY

I had forgotten about the quail that live

on the hillside over behind Art and Marilyn's

place. I opened up the house, made a fire,

and afterwards slept like a dead man.

The next morning there were quail in the drive

and in the bushes outside the front window.

I talked to you on the phone.

Tried to joke. Don't worry

about me, I said, I have the quail

for company. Well, they took flight

when I opened the door. A week later

and they still haven't come back. When I look

at the silent telephone I think of quail.

When I think of the quail and how they

went away, I remember talking to you that morning

and how the receiver lay in my hand. My heart—

the blurred things it was doing at the time.

# MUSIC

Franz Liszt eloped with Countess Marie d'Agoult,

who wrote novels. Polite society washed its hands

of him, and his novelist-countess-whore.

Liszt gave her three children, and music.

Then went off with Princess Wittgenstein.

Cosima, Liszt's daughter, married

the conductor, Hans von Bülow.

But Richard Wagner stole her. Took her away

to Bayreuth. Where Liszt showed up one morning.

Long white hair flouncing.

Shaking his fist. Music. Music!

Everybody grew more famous.

# PLUS

"Lately I've been eating a lot of pork.

Plus, I eat too many eggs and things,"

this guy said to me in the doc's office.

"I pour on the salt. I drink twenty cups

of coffee every day. I smoke.

I'm having trouble with my breathing."

Then lowered his eyes.

"Plus, I don't always clear off the table

when I'm through eating. I forget.

I just get up and walk away.

Goodbye until the next time, brother.

Mister, what do you think's happening to me?"

He was describing my own symptoms to a T.

I said, "What do you think's happening?

You're losing your marbles. And then

you're going to die. Or vice versa.

What about sweets? Are you partial

to cinnamon rolls and ice cream?"

"Plus, I crave all that," he said.

By this time we were at a place called Friendly's.

We looked at menus and went on talking.

Dinner music played from a radio

in the kitchen. It was our song, see.

It was our table.

# ALL HER LIFE

I lay down for a nap. But every time I closed my eyes,

mares' tails passed slowly over the Strait

toward Canada. And the waves. They rolled up on the beach

and then back again. You know I don't dream.

But last night I dreamt we were watching

a burial at sea. At first I was astonished.

And then filled with regret. But you

touched my arm and said, "No, it's all right.

She was very old, and he'd loved her all her life."

# THE HAT

Walking around on our first day

in Mexico City, we come to a sidewalk café

on Reforma Avenue where a man in a hat

sits drinking a beer.

At first the man seems just like any

other man, wearing a hat, drinking a beer

in the middle of the day. But next to this man,

asleep on the broad sidewalk, is a bear

with its head on its paws. The bear's

eyes are closed, but not all the way. As if

it were there, and not there. Everyone

is giving the bear a wide berth.

But a crowd is gathering, too, bulging

out onto the Avenue. The man has

a chain around his waist. The chain

goes from his lap to the bear's collar,

a band of steel. On the table

in front of the man rests an iron bar

with a leather handle. And as if this

were not enough, the man drains the last

of his beer and picks up his bar.

Gets up from the table and hauls

on the chain. The bear stirs, opens its

mouth—old brown and yellow fangs.

But fangs. The man jerks on the chain,

hard. The bear rises to all fours now

and growls. The man slaps the bear on

its shoulder with the bar, bringing

a tiny cloud of dust. Growls something

himself. The bear waits while the man takes

another swing. Slowly, the bear rises

onto its hind legs, swings at air and at

that goddamned bar. Begins to shuffle

then, begins to snap its jaws as the man

slugs it again, and, yes, again

with that bar. There's a tamborine.

I nearly forgot that. The man shakes

it as he chants, as he strikes the bear

who weaves on its hind legs. Growls

and snaps and weaves in a poor dance.

This scene lasts forever. Whole seasons

come and go before it's over and the bear

drops to all fours. Sits down on its

haunches, gives a low, sad growl.

The man puts the tamborine on the table.

Puts the iron bar on the table, too.

Then he takes off his hat. No one

applauds. A few people see

what's coming and walk away. But not

before the hat appears at the edge

of the crowd and begins to make its

way from hand to hand

through the throng. The hat

comes to me and stops. I'm holding

the hat, and I can't believe it.

Everybody staring at it.

I stare right along with them.

You say my name, and in the same breath

hiss, "For God's sake, pass it along."

I toss in the money I have. Then

we leave and go on to the next thing.

Hours later, in bed, I touch you

and wait, and then touch you again.

Whereupon, you uncurl your fingers.

I put my hands all over you then—

your limbs, your long hair even, hair

that I touch and cover my face with,

and draw salt from. But later,

when I close my eyes, the hat

appears. Then the tamborine. The chain.

# LATE NIGHT WITH FOG AND HORSES

They were in the living room. Saying their

goodbyes. Loss ringing in their ears.

They'd been through a lot together, but now

they couldn't go another step. Besides, for him

there was someone else. Tears were falling

when a horse stepped out of the fog

into the front yard. Then another, and

another. She went outside and said,

"Where did you come from, you sweet horses?"

and moved in amongst them, weeping,

touching their flanks. The horses began

to graze in the front yard.

He made two calls: one call went straight

to the sheriff—"someone's horses are out."

But there was that other call, too.

Then he joined his wife in the front

yard, where they talked and murmured

to the horses together. (Whatever was

happening now was happening in another time.)

Horses cropped the grass in the yard

that night. A red emergency light

flashed as a sedan crept in out of fog.

Voices carried out of the fog.

At the end of that long night,

when they finally put their arms around

each other, their embrace was full of

passion and memory. Each recalled

the other's youth. Now something had ended,

something else rushing in to take its place.

Came the moment of leave-taking itself.

"Goodbye, go on," she said.

And the pulling away.

Much later,

he remembered making a disastrous phone call.

One that had hung on and hung on,

a malediction. It's boiled down

to that. The rest of his life.

Malediction.

# VENICE

The gondolier handed you a rose.

Took us up one canal

and then another. We glided

past Casanova's palace, the palace of

the Rossi family, palaces belonging

to the Baglioni, the Pisani, and Sangallo.

Flooded. Stinking. What's left

left to rats. Blackness.

The silence total, or nearly.

The man's breath coming and going

behind my ear. The drip of the oar.

We gliding silently on, and on.

Who would blame me if I fall

to thinking about death?

A shutter opened above our heads.

A little light showed through

before the shutter was closed once

more. There is that, and the rose

in your hand. And history.

# THE EVE OF BATTLE

There are five of us in the tent, not counting

the batman cleaning my rifle. There's

a lively argument going on amongst my brother

officers. In the cookpot, salt pork turns

alongside some macaroni. But these fine fellows

aren't hungry—and it's a good thing!

All they want is to harrumph about the likes

of Huss and Hegel, anything to pass the time.

Who cares? Tomorrow we fight. Tonight they want

to sit around and chatter about nothing, about

_philosophy_. Maybe the cookpot isn't there

for them? Nor the stove, or those folding

stools they're sitting on. Maybe there isn't

a battle waiting for them tomorrow morning?

We'd all like that best. Maybe

I'm not there for them, either. Ready

to dish up something to eat. _Un est autre_ ,

as someone said. I, or another, may as well be

in China. Time to eat, brothers,

I say, handing round the plates. But someone

has just ridden up and dismounted. My batman

moves to the door of the tent, then drops his plate

and steps back. Death walks in without saying

anything, dressed in coat-and-tails.

At first I think he must be looking for the Emperor,

who's old and ailing anyway. That would explain

it. Death's lost his way. What else could it be?

He has a slip of paper in his hand, looks us over

quickly, consults some names.

He raises his eyes. I turn to the stove.

When I turn back, everyone has gone. Everyone

except Death. He's still there, unmoving.

I give him his plate. He's come a long

way. He is hungry, I think, and will eat anything.

# EXTIRPATION

A little quietly outstanding uptown

piano music played in the background

as we sat at the bar in the lounge.

Discussing the fate of the last caribou herd in the U.S.

Thirty animals who roam a small corner

of the Idaho Panhandle. Thirty animals

just north of Bonner's Ferry,

this guy said. Then called for another round.

But I had to go. We never saw each other again.

Never spoke another word to each other,

or did anything worth getting excited about

the rest of our lives.

# THE CATCH

Happy to have these fish!

In spite of the rain, they came

to the surface and took

the No. 14 Black Mosquito.

He had to concentrate,

close everything else out

for a change. His old life,

which he carried around

like a pack. And the new one,

that one too. Time and again

he made what he felt were the most

intimate of human movements.

Strained his heart to see

the difference between a raindrop

and a brook trout. Later,

walking across the wet field

to the car. Watching

the wind change the aspen trees.

He abandoned everyone

he once loved.

# MY DEATH

If I'm lucky, I'll be wired every whichway

in a hospital bed. Tubes running into

my nose. But try not to be scared of me, friends!

I'm telling you right now that this is okay.

It's little enough to ask for at the end.

Someone, I hope, will have phoned everyone

to say, "Come quick, he's failing!"

And they will come. And there will be time for me

to bid goodbye to each of my loved ones.

If I'm lucky, they'll step forward

and I'll be able to see them one last time

and take that memory with me.

Sure, they might lay eyes on me and want to run away

and howl. But instead, since they love me,

they'll lift my hand and say "Courage"

or "It's going to be all right."

And they're right. It is all right.

It's just fine. If you only knew how happy you've made me!

I just hope my luck holds, and I can make

some sign of recognition.

Open and close my eyes as if to say,

"Yes, I hear you. I understand you."

I may even manage something like this:

"I love you too. Be happy."

I hope so! But I don't want to ask for too much.

If I'm unlucky, as I deserve, well, I'll just

drop over, like that, without any chance

for farewell, or to press anyone's hand.

Or say how much I cared for you and enjoyed

your company all these years. In any case,

try not to mourn for me too much. I want you to know

I was happy when I was here.

And remember I told you this a while ago—April 1984.

But be glad for me if I can die in the presence

of friends and family. If this happens, believe me,

I came out ahead. I didn't lose this one.

# TO BEGIN WITH

He took a room in a port city with a fellow

called Sulieman A. Sulieman and his wife,

an American known only as Bonnie. One thing

he remembered about his stay there

was how every evening Sulieman rapped

at his own front door before entering.

Saying, "Right, hello. Sulieman here."

After that, Sulieman taking off his shoes.

Putting pita bread and humus into his mouth

in the company of his silent wife.

Sometimes there was a piece of chicken

followed by cucumbers and tomatoes.

Then they all watched what passed for TV

in that country, Bonnie sitting in a chair

to herself, raving against the Jews.

At eleven o'clock she would say, "We have to sleep now."

But once they left their bedroom door open.

And he saw Sulieman make his bed on the floor

beside the big bed where Bonnie lay

and looked down at her husband.

They said something to each other in a foreign language.

Sulieman arranged his shoes by his head.

Bonnie turned off the light, and they slept.

But the man in the room at the back of the house

couldn't sleep at all. It was as if

he didn't believe in sleep any longer.

Sleep had been all right, once, in its time.

But it was different now.

Lying there at night, eyes open, arms at his sides,

his thoughts went out to his wife,

and his children, and everything that bore

on that leave-taking. Even the shoes

he'd been wearing when he left his house

and walked out. They were the real betrayers,

he decided. They'd brought him all this way

without once trying to do anything to stop him.

Finally, his thoughts came back to this room

and this house. Where they belonged.

Where he knew he was home.

Where a man slept on the floor of his own bedroom.

A man who knocked at the door of his own house,

announcing his meager arrival. Sulieman.

Who entered his house only after knocking

and then to eat pita bread and tomatoes

with his bitter wife. But in the course of those long nights

he began to envy Sulieman a little.

Not much, but a little. And so what if he did!

Sulieman sleeping on his bedroom floor.

But Sulieman sleeping in the same room,

at least, as his wife.

Maybe it was all right if she snored

and had blind prejudices. She wasn't so bad-

looking, that much was true, and if

Sulieman woke up he could at least

hear her from his place. Know she was there.

There might even be nights when he could reach

over and touch her through the blanket

without waking her. Bonnie. His wife.

Maybe in this life it was necessary to learn

to pretend to be a dog and sleep on the floor

in order to get along. Sometimes

this might be necessary. Who knows

anything these days?

At least it was a new idea and something,

he thought, he might have to try and understand.

Outside, the moon reached over the water

and disappeared finally. Footsteps

moved slowly down the street and came to a stop

outside his window. The streetlight

went out, and the steps passed on.

The house became still and, in one way at least,

like all the other houses—totally dark.

He held onto his blanket and stared at the ceiling.

He had to start over. To begin with—

the oily smell of the sea, the rotting tomatoes.

# THE CRANES

Cranes lifting up out of the marshland...

My brother brings his fingers to his temples

and then drops his hands.

Like that, he was dead.

The satin lining of autumn.

O my brother! I miss you now, and I'd like to have you back.

Hug you like a grown man

who knows the worth of things.

The mist of events drifts away.

Not in this life, I told you once.

I was given a different set of marching orders.

I planned to go mule-backing across the Isthmus.

Begone, though, if this is your idea of things!

But I'll think of you out there

when I look at those stars we saw as children.

The cranes wallop their wings.

In a moment, they'll find true north.

Then turn in the opposite direction.

# A HAIRCUT

So many impossible things have already

happened in this life. He doesn't think

twice when she tells him to get ready:

He's about to get a haircut.

He sits in the chair in the upstairs room,

the room they sometimes joke and refer to

as the library. There's a window there

that gives light. Snow's coming

down outside as newspapers go down

around his feet. She drapes a big

towel over his shoulders. Then

gets out her scissors, comb, and brush.

This is the first time they've been

alone together in a while—with nobody

going anywhere, or needing to do

anything. Not counting the going

to bed with each other. That intimacy.

Or breakfasting together. Another

intimacy. They both grow quiet

and thoughtful as she cuts his hair,

and combs it, and cuts some more.

The snow keeps falling outside.

Soon, light begins to pull away from

the window. He stares down, lost and

musing, trying to read

something from the paper. She says,

"Raise your head." And he does.

And then she says, "See what you think

of it." He goes to look

in the mirror, and it's fine.

It's just the way he likes it,

and he tells her so.

It's later, when he turns on the

porchlight, and shakes out the towel

and sees the curls and swaths of

white and dark hair fly out onto

the snow and stay there,

that he understands something: He's

grownup now, a real, grownup,

middle-aged man. When he was a boy,

going with his dad to the barbershop,

or even later, a teenager, how

could he have imagined his life

would someday allow him the privilege of

a beautiful woman to travel with,

and sleep with, and take his breakfast with?

Not only that—a woman who would

quietly cut his hair in the afternoon

in a dark city that lay under snow

3000 miles away from where he'd started.

A woman who could look at him

across the table and say,

"It's time to put you in the barber's

chair. It's time somebody gave you

a haircut."

# HAPPINESS IN CORNWALL

His wife died, and he grew old

between the graveyard and his

front door. Walked with a gait.

Shoulders bent. He let his clothes

go, and his long hair turned white.

His children found him somebody.

A big middle-aged woman with

heavy shoes who knew how to

mop, wax, dust, shop, and carry in

firewood. Who could live

in a room at the back of the house.

Prepare meals. And slowly,

slowly bring the old man around

to listening to her read poetry

in the evenings in front of

the fire. Tennyson, Browning,

Shakespeare, Drinkwater. Men

whose names take up space

on the page. She was the butler,

cook, housekeeper. And after

a time, oh, no one knows or cares

when, they began to dress up

on Sundays and stroll through town.

She with her arm through his.

Smiling. He proud and happy

and with his hand on hers.

No one denied them

or tried to diminish this

in any way. Happiness is

a rare thing! Evenings he

listened to poetry, poetry, poetry

in front of the fire.

Couldn't get enough of that life.

# AFGHANISTAN

The sad music of roads lined with larches.

The forest in the distance resting under snow.

The Khyber Pass. Alexander the Great.

History, and lapis lazuli.

No books, no pictures, no knick-knacks please me.

But she pleases me. And lapis lazuli.

That blue stone she wears on her dear finger.

That pleases me exceedingly.

The bucket clatters into the well.

And brings up water with a sweet taste to it.

The towpath along the river. The footpath

Through the grove of almonds. My love

Goes everywhere in her sandals.

And wears lapis lazuli on her finger.

# IN A MARINE LIGHT NEAR
SEQUIM, WASHINGTON

The green fields were beginning. And the tall, white

farmhouses after the tidal flats and those little sand crabs

that were ready to run, or else turn and square off, if

we moved the rock they lived under. The languor

of that subdued afternoon. The beauty of driving

that country road. Talking of Paris, our Paris.

And then you finding that place in the book

and reading to me about Anna Akhmatova's stay there with Modigliani.

Them sitting on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens

under his enormous old black umbrella

reciting Verlaine to each other. Both of them

"as yet untouched by their futures." When

out in the field we saw

a bare-chested young man with his trousers rolled up,

like an ancient oarsman. He looked at us without curiosity.

Stood there and gazed indifferently.

Then turned his back to us and went on with his work.

As we passed like a beautiful black scythe

through that perfect landscape.

# EAGLES

It was a sixteen-inch ling cod that the eagle

dropped near our feet

at the top of Bagley Creek canyon,

at the edge of the green woods.

Puncture marks in the sides of the fish

where the bird gripped with its talons!

That and a piece torn out of the fish's back.

Like an old painting recalled,

or an ancient memory coming back,

that eagle flew with the fish from the Strait

of Juan de Fuca up the canyon to where

the woods begin, and we stood watching.

It lost the fish above our heads,

dropped for it, missed it, and soared on

over the valley where wind beats all day.

We watched it keep going until it was

a speck, then gone. I picked up

the fish. That miraculous ling cod.

Came home from the walk and—

why the hell not?—cooked it

lightly in oil and ate it

with boiled potatoes and peas and biscuits.

Over dinner, talking about eagles

and an older, fiercer order of things.

# YESTERDAY, SNOW

Yesterday, snow was falling and all was chaos.

I don't dream, but in the night I dreamed

a man offered me some of his whiskey.

I wiped the mouth of the bottle

and raised it to my lips.

It was like one of those dreams of falling

where, they say, if you don't wake up

before you hit the ground,

you'll die. I woke up! Sweating.

Outside, the snow had quit.

But, my God, it looked cold. Fearsome.

The windows were ice to the touch

when I touched them. I got back

in bed and lay there the rest of the night,

afraid I'd sleep again. And find

myself back in that dream...

The bottle rising to my lips.

The indifferent man

waiting for me to drink and pass it on again.

A skewed moon hangs on until morning,

and a brilliant sun.

Before now, I never knew what it meant

to "spring out of bed."

All day snow flopping off roofs.

The crunch of tires and footsteps.

Next door, there's an old fellow shoveling.

Every so often he stops and leans

on his shovel, and rests, letting

his thoughts go where they may.

Staying his heart.

Then he nods and grips his shovel.

Goes on, yes. Goes on.

# READING SOMETHING
IN THE RESTAURANT

This morning I remembered the young man

with his book, reading at a table

by the window last night. Reading

amidst the coming and going of dishes

and voices. Now and then he looked

up and passed his finger across

his lips, as if pondering something,

or quieting the thoughts inside

his mind, the going

and coming inside his mind. Then

he lowered his head and went back

to reading. That memory

gets into my head this morning

with the memory of

the girl who entered the restaurant

that time long ago and stood shaking her hair.

Then sat down across from me

without taking her coat off.

I put down whatever book it was

I was reading, and she at once

started to tell me there was

not a snowball's chance in hell

this thing was going to fly.

She knew it. Then I came around

to knowing it. But it was

hard. This morning, my sweet,

you ask me what's new

in the world. But my concentration

is shot. At the table next

to ours a man laughs and laughs

and shakes his head at what

another fellow is telling him.

But what was that young man reading?

Where did that woman go?

I've lost my place. Tell me what it is

you wanted to know.

# A POEM NOT AGAINST
SONGBIRDS

Lighten up, songbirds. Give me a break.

No need to carry on this way,

even if it is morning. I need more sleep.

Where were you keeping yourselves when I was thirty?

When the house stayed dark and quiet all day,

as if somebody had died?

And this same somebody, or somebody else,

cooked a huge, morose meal for the survivors.

A meal that lasted ten years.

Go on, sweethearts. Come back in an hour,

my friends. Then I'll be wide awake.

You'll see. This time I can promise.

# LATE AFTERNOON,
APRIL 8, 1984

A little sport-fishing boat

wallowing

in the rough waters of the Strait.

I put the glasses on him.

Old guy in a canvas hat,

looking grim. Worried,

as he should be.

The other boats have come in

long ago, counting

their blessings.

This fisherman

had to be clear out to Green Point

where giant halibut school.

When the wind struck!

Such force it bent the trees

and caused the water

to stand up.

As it's standing now.

But he'll make it!

If he keeps the bow into

the wind, and if he's lucky.

Even so I look up

the Coast Guard emergency number.

But I don't use it.

I keep watching—an hour, maybe less—

who knows what passes

through his mind, and mine,

in that time"?

Then he turns in to the harbor,

where at once it grows calmer.

Takes off his hat then and waves it

like mad—like an old-time cowboy!

Something he won't ever forget.

You betcha.

Me neither.

# MY WORK

I look up and see them starting

down the beach. The young man

is wearing a packboard to carry the baby.

This leaves his hands free

so that he can take one of his wife's hands

in his, and swing his other. Anyone can see

how happy they are. And intimate. How steady.

They are happier than anyone else, and they know it.

Are gladdened by it, and humbled.

They walk to the end of the beach

and out of sight. That's it, I think,

and return to this thing governing

my life. But in a few minutes

they come walking back along the beach.

The only thing different

is that they have changed sides.

He is on the other side of her now,

the ocean side. She is on this side.

But they are still holding hands. Even more

in love, if that's possible. And it is.

Having been there for a long time myself.

Theirs has been a modest walk, fifteen minutes

down the beach, fifteen minutes back.

They've had to pick their way

over some rocks and around huge logs,

tossed up from when the sea ran wild.

They walk quietly, slowly, holding hands.

They know the water is out there

but they're so happy that they ignore it.

The love in their young faces. The surround of it.

Maybe it _will_ last forever. If they are lucky,

and good, and forebearing. And careful. If they

go on loving each other without stint.

Are true to each other—that most of all.

As they will be, of course, as they will be,

as they know they will be.

I go back to my work. My work goes back to me.

A wind picks up out over the water.

# THE TRESTLE

I've wasted my time this morning, and I'm deeply ashamed.

I went to bed last night thinking about my dad.

About that little river we used to fish—Butte Creek—

near Lake Almanor. Water lulled me to sleep.

In my dream, it was all I could do not to get up

and move around. But when I woke early this morning

I went to the telephone instead. Even though

the river was flowing down there in the valley,

in the meadows, moving through ditch clover.

Fir trees stood on both sides of the meadows. And I was there.

A kid sitting on a timber trestle, looking down.

Watching my dad drink from his cupped hands.

Then he said, "This water's so good.

I wish I could give my mother some of this water."

My dad still loved her, though she was dead

and he'd been away from her for a long time.

He had to wait some more years

until he could go where she was. But he loved

this country where he found himself. The West.

For thirty years it had him around the heart,

and then it let him go. He went to sleep one night

in a town in northern California

and didn't wake up. What could be simpler?

I wish my own life, and death, could be so simple.

So that when I woke on a fine morning like this,

after being somewhere I wanted to be all night,

somewhere important, I could move most naturally

and without thinking about it, to my desk.

Say I did that, in the simple way I've described.

From bed to desk back to childhood.

From there it's not so far to the trestle.

And from the trestle I could look down

and see my dad when I needed to see him.

My dad drinking that cold water. My sweet father.

The river, its meadows, and firs, and the trestle.

That. Where I once stood.

I wish I could do that

without having to plead with myself for it.

And feel sick of myself

for getting involved in lesser things.

I know it's time I changed my life.

This life—the one with its complications

and phone calls—is unbecoming,

and a waste of time.

I want to plunge my hands in clear water. The way

he did. Again and then again.

# FOR TESS

Out on the Strait the water is whitecapping,

as they say here. It's rough, and I'm glad

I'm not out. Glad I fished all day

on Morse Creek, casting a red Daredevil back

and forth. I didn't catch anything. No bites

even, not one. But it was okay. It was fine!

I carried your dad's pocketknife and was followed

for a while by a dog its owner called Dixie.

At times I felt so happy I had to quit

fishing. Once I lay on the bank with my eyes closed,

listening to the sound the water made,

and to the wind in the tops of the trees. The same wind

that blows out on the Strait, but a different wind, too.

For a while I even let myself imagine I had died—

and that was all right, at least for a couple

of minutes, until it really sank in: _Dead_.

As I was lying there with my eyes closed,

just after I'd imagined what it might be like

if in fact I never got up again, I thought of you.

I opened my eyes then and got right up

and went back to being happy again.

I'm grateful to you, you see. I wanted to tell you.

# RAYMOND CARVER

Raymond Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon, in 1938. His first collection of stories, _Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?_ (a National Book Award nominee in 1977), was followed by _What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral_ (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in 1984), and _Where I'm Calling From_ in 1988, when he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He died in August of that year, shortly after completing the poems of _A New Path to the Waterfall_.

# ALSO BY

RAYMOND CARVER

CALL IF YOU NEED ME

_Call If You Need Me_ traces the arc of Carver's career, not in the widely anthologized stories that have become classics, but through his uncollected fiction and his essays. Here are the five "last" stories, discovered a decade after Carver's death. Here also are Carver's first published story, the fragment of an unfinished novel, and all his nonfiction—from a recollection of his father to reflections on writers as varied as Anton Chekhov and Donald Barthelme. _Call If You Need Me_ invites us to travel with a singular artist, step by step, as he discovers what is worth saying and how to say it so it pierces the heart.

Fiction/Literature

CATHEDRAL

"A dozen stories that overflow with the danger, excitement, mystery and possibility of life.... Carver is a writer of astonishing compassion and honesty... his eye set only on describing and revealing the world as he sees it. His eye is so clear, it almost breaks your heart" (Jonathan Yardley, _The Washington Post Book World_ ).

Fiction/Literature

FIRES

More than sixty stories, poems, and essays are included in this wide-ranging collection by the amazingly gifted and versatile Raymond Carver. Two of the stories—later revised for _What We Talk About When We Talk About Love_ —are particularly notable in that between the first and final versions, we see clearly the astounding process of Carver's literary development.

Fiction/Poetry/Essays

SHORT CUTS

The works of fiction—nine stories and one poem—collected in this volume form the basis of an astonishingly original film directed by Robert Altman. These now-classic stories, when read together, form a searing and indelible portrait of American innocence and loss. With deadpan humor and enormous tenderness, the film _Short Cuts_ reinvents and dramatizes them as only an artist of Altman's caliber could, giving new insight into the work of "one of the true contemporary masters" ( _The New York Review of Books_ ).

Fiction/Literature

WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE

In his second collection of stories, as in his first, Carver's characters are peripheral people—people without education, insight, or prospects, people too unimaginative to even give up. Carver celebrates these men and women.

Fiction/Literature

WHERE I'M CALLING FROM

Carver's last collection encompasses classic stories from _Cathedral, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love_ , and earlier Carver volumes, along with seven works previously unpublished in book form. Together, these thirty-seven stories give us a superb overview of Carver's life work and show us why he was so widely imitated but never equaled.

Fiction/Literature

WILL YOU PLEASE BE QUIET, PLEASE?

With this, his first collection of stories, Raymond Carver breathed new life into the American short story and instantly became the recognized master of the form. Carver shows us the humor and tragedy that dwell in the hearts of ordinary people. His stories are the classics of our time.

Fiction/Literature

ALL OF US

Although he won his greatest acclaim as a writer of short stories, Raymond Carver began his career as a poet, and he continued to write poetry until his death in 1988. With this stunningly rich collection, the full extent of his achievement is finally evident. The more than three hundred poems in _All of Us_ possess all the virtues of Carver's fiction: a keen attention to the physical world; an uncanny ability to compress vast feeling into discreet moments; a voice of conversational intimacy; and an unstinting sympathy for "all of us, all of us, all of us / trying to save / our immortal souls." This edition brings together all the poems of Carver's four previous books, along with those posthumously published in _No Heroics, Please_. It also contains bibliographical and textual notes on individual poems; a chronology of Carver's life and work; and a moving introduction by Carver's widow, the poet Tess Gallagher.

Poetry

ULTRAMARINE

"Mr. Carver is heir to that most appealing American poetic voice, the lyricism of Theodore Roethke and James Wright.... This book is a treasure, one to return to. No one's brevity is as rich, as complete, as Raymond Carver's" ( _The New York Times Book Review_ ).

Poetry

WHERE WATER COMES TOGETHER WITH OTHER WATER

A vast collection of poems that won _Poetry_ magazine's Levinson Prize. "Somehow the nuances of daily experience, the warmth, humor, and reflection the poet brings to subjects are quite unlike anyone else's" (Joseph Parisi).

Poetry

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