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So when I dreamed of Calamus, as I often did when I touched you or put my hand upon your hand, it was not as of a possible world, but as a lost paradise. A land my father Adam drove me out of with the whip of shadow. In the last sense of the word—a fairy story. That is what I think about Calamus. That is what I think about your damned Calamus. THE DAY FIVE THOUSAND FISH DIED ALONG THE CHARLES RIVER And when the fish come in to die They slap their heads against the rocks until they float Downstream on one dead eye. From rocks The Irish boys yell and throw rocks at them and beat them with their sticks. Gulls wheel in the fine sky. Tall as an ogre God walks among the rocks. His angels cry, “Yell and throw rocks at them and beat them with sticks!” But watch those upturned eyes That gleam like God’s own candles in the sun. Nothing Deserves to live. HIBERNATION—AFTER MORRIS GRAVES Deeper than sleep, but in a room as narrow The mind turns off its longings one by one, Lets beautiful black fingers snap the last one, Remove the self and lie its body down. The Future chills the sky above the chamber. Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 56 56 The Past gnaws through the earth below the bed. But here the naked Present lies as warmly As if it rested in the lap of God. ÉTERNUEMENT There is a beautiful world in a little girl’s body. When I poke my fingers into her I can see it. Or when the absurdity of the postman Or the snow that won’t stay still on the ground Or the queers with painted noses that walk together in the Bois Or the birds When I poke my fingers into them I can see it When I poke my fingers into them I can see it. SONG FOR THE GREAT MOTHER One minute after midnight, Mrs. Doom From the middle distance of another room Begins to take the furniture apart And close the drawers, and slam the windows shut. She puts away each angry, loving sight We left behind us or had heard or touched. She rolls the carpet up on which we danced Sweeps up the dust, then sighs and snaps the light. And if we sleep, she whispers round our beds And buzzes at the corners of our eyes Snipping each dream with hungry murmuring. Oh, who would take this darkness for his bride? Nothing is changed by her. All things remain Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 57 57 ...

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