Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

To the Bardo

The Growing Christ of Tzintzuntzan Come in at the narrow door, and then go back, but not yet— Lie down, head to my bandaged head, foot to growing foot, I am so tired, too, in my glass box. Sheep With the winter and mud and shit roped into your wool, Your black stick legs, blank eyes— The farmer stumps home to his supper And you are beyond your own bells And my friend is in pain and there’s nothing I can do, Suffering is everywhere intense, and if We make our own pain ourselves, who can help it? Cold selves, Cold you, unbearable clamor and rust— To the Bardo I dreamed I finally got through to C on the phone he was whispering I couldn’t make out the words 24 door in the mountain he had been in the hospital and then in a home M was sick too You know how in dreams you are everyone: awake too you are everyone: I am listening breathing your ashy breath old Chinese poet: fire: to see the way Rodney Dying (4) A woman was picking up the plastic forks and napkins in a plastic box I was sitting on the grass floor leaning against your knees: Under the ground I sat down on the floor and embraced your knees. * Door in the Mountain Never ran this hard through the valley never ate so many stars new poems 25 ...