Lucy, your secret book that you lie over and woke just
in the dirt.
Not having to have an ending.
Not having to last.
Here's this bit from a song.
And I woke.
All my members were with me, which
in continuance were fashioned when as yet there
was none of them.
Two hands were all you owned for food, for love.
Now you own none, Lucy.
No real words, only breath marks.
Breath marks only, nor no words, or what do you do for love?
No, no.
What do you do, Lucy, for love?
Your eye holes.
Lucy, my saxifrage that splits the rocks.
Wild good mother, you fill my center hole with bliss.
No one is so tender in her scream, wants me so much.
Not just, but brings me to be Is when I'm close to death
and close to life.
Spider in her web, three days, dead on the window, Lucy.
In the electricity of love, the lightning strike, or in
its quiet hum in the thighs, like this little ice box
here not knowing any better.
Or in the dumb hum of the heater going on.
Little stirs in the room tone.
I rush outdoors into the air.
You are Lucy.
And you rush out to receive me.
At last, there you are, who I always
knew was there, but almost died not meeting.
When my scraped out child died, Lucy, you
hold her, all the time.
Lucy, when the dark bodies dropped out
of the towers, when Ruth died and Grace and Helen
Ruth and Iraq and Iraq.
And Nikolay.
Lucy, when Jane in her last clothes
goes across with Chekhov
you are the ferryman, the monk Ieronim who
throws your weight on the rope.
Can you hear when the planes are going over?
No?
Yes?
You can?
Back up a little bit.
It'd be nice if you backed up a little bit.
If you reread a little bit.
Oh, back up in the poem.
I'll do anything you tell me.
If you don't mind.
I don't mind.
Where should I go back to?
A minute or two?
To 7:30.
In the electricity of love?
In the electricity of love--
and then should I stop when the planes go over?
Yeah.
I need your help here.
I don't know.
Yes.
I should stop when the planes go over.
OK.
In the electricity of love, its lightning
strike or in the quiet in the thighs
like the little icebox here not knowing any better or even
the dumb hum of the heater going on.
Little stirs in the room tone.
I rush outdoors into the air you are, Lucy,
and you rush out to receive me.
At last, there you are, who I always
knew was there but almost died not meeting.
When my scraped out child died, Lucy, you
hold her all the time.
Lucy, when the dark bodies dropped out of the towers,
when Ruth died and Grace and Helen Ruth,
and Iraq and Iraq and Nicolay.
Lucy, when Jane in her last clothes go across with Chekhov,
you are the ferryman, the monk Ieronim who
throws your weight on the rope.
I wash my plate, my spoon, as carefully as a priest.
Did you have a cup, Lucy?
Oh God who transcends time, let Lucy have a cup.
You botthavista here with us.
You wanted to come back.
I'm afraid and can't pay attention to it.
I'm wild with heat and cold, and my head hurts.
The nine wild turkeys come up calmly to the porch to see you,
Lucy.