I'm going to read two more things.
But one is a group of--
a couple of poems.
And a few poems from this book called Death Tractates,
A tractate is a--
it's a word I stole from the Gnostic stuff
that I was reading for 10 years or so.
And tractate just means-- it's an old-fashioned word,
meaning a tract, or an essay, or a philosophical piece that's
meant to be something other than expository.
And I thought that I would--
I experienced a death in the middle
of writing Bright Existence, of a close friend.
And she was my, maybe, closest mentor or spiritual mentor.
This book is about grieving for her, and writing,
and about how hard it is to write.
And it takes place in Berkeley in the spring,
so the landscape is foreign in several time and space.
But I'll read a few of those.
And the voice is very interior in these poems.
So I won't pause.
Secret Knowledge.
At first, I was able to speak to her quickly just
by closing my eyes.
She had died in the first week of quinces, when things put
forth their secret knowledge.
Fiery wind and blossoms are allowed to live,
and robins don't seem all that common
as they swing at the tops of cypresses through new song.
And I wanted to hear just one voice but I heard two.
Wanted to be one thing but I was several.
I called her more quickly, told her how much I missed
her, pausing at the edge of the screen that
kept me from her in all the awkwardness of living.
And she said it was not up to me to live without her
or make the voice be single.
She said every voice is needed, every voice
cries out in its own way.