Measures of the Unknown, and: Old Religion, and: High Bridge

by Anderson Douglass MEASURES OF THE UNKNOWN I I have forgotten the size of my body. Practicing suits of light with a new camera, The portrait of the poet Against blue couch and lamp with sails for shades Is larger than I thought. Receding hairline, thin shoulders, Browlines that make shadow— I am not young anymore. Merwin called the camera "a dangerous instrument." A woman told me this, One who got many beautiful pictures of Merwin, His long hair holding wind. Her speech worked the wind, which slowed, Making runnels in his hair, Measures of that March day like flags flapping, Defining the invisible. What you don't see is exactly wind. II In the picture I sit reading. Words run above the blue couch, Sail with the sailing shades and Crown the brain of my body With province, and lebesraum, Promised lands unknown and unknowable— There are deep knowledges out there That go on quietly without me, Through years which wave into nothing Like vapor slowly wedding cool air. I wait like Moses at the ragged edge, Who weeps for Canaan, who cries after his sons, Send me word, send me word. 3ïiiee CPoemb 53 OLD RELIGION Watch for the beggar. He is one Darkness in your life. He wanted Three nickels, said like that, three nickels, And God knows what this will get now. You said you didn't have it. You Padded off into the night, swept By sudden loathing. Looked too long, And now, mirrowed, his eyes follow Yours forever in old religion. The eyes ofJesus set in black anger. After your business, you go back. The street has a bus stop, you recall, Two trashcans, cars flowing. Of course He's not there. Searching the alleys, Almost praying to find him, he's nowhere. You hope he's inside, out of this cold. And he is, carried in your dark raging heart. The world bleeds there in beats of night. Let's talk shop now. We fly poems like Birds blowing on new wind to old trees. We are always trying to get back To this world in its first warm Dimness. Shed too much light, you Go blind. Anyway, things aren't packed With light. There are shadows chuted With changing depts of darkness. You move From one to another in slow prayer. HIGH BRIDGE for James and Glendon "Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!" —Baudelaire Wind threaded through the trestle And drew sky around us Like sails collapsing. Earth is rived by river Spilling under High Bridge In the deep green of March. 54 The wind became deep green too. James, Glendon, and I clambered Up the gravelled hill, Pausing a moment to ride The Shockwaves of a passing train. Three years ago three were killed— Trapped on the bridge, blown Like Icarus toward the sun, Which became gritty clay And flat, hard riverwash. James sketched. Glendon smoked a pipe. I photographed smoker and artist, Then hunkered down to see the rail As train wheel does, Churning distance as a thing In the present yet always ahead. Fields lay on the other side Of the Kentucky River. We mulched grass like horses, Looking for the long shoots So that slight wind (Long weed trembling) Might kiss our tongues. Two trains clicked past. I will remember that day differently, That it was alive With airs of the possible: Though what is seems destined Anything can always be. James crushed by sky Dove off wildly as we knelt, Late afternoon train roaring past. Deathstruck now by the screaming distance He flung between us (His wingless body falling), We fall forever with him. 55 ...