{"product_id":"orbit-isbn-9780451494726","title":"Orbit","description":"\u003cb\u003eWith\u003ci\u003e Orbit,\u003c\/i\u003e prize-winning author Cynthia Zarin confirms her place as an indispensable American poet of our time.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this, her fifth collection, Zarin turns her lyric lens on the worlds within worlds we inhabit and how we navigate our shared predicament—the tables of our lives on which the news of the day is strewn: the president speaking to parishioners in Charleston, the ricochet of violence, near and far. Whether writing about hairpin turns in the stair of childhood, about the cat’s claw of anxiety, on the impending loss of a young friend, or how “love endures, give or take,” here is the poet who, in the title poem, “bartered forty summers for black pearls” and whose work is full of such wagers, embodied in playing cards, treble notes, snow globes, and balancing acts. Zarin reminds us that the atmosphere created by our experiences shapes and defines the orbit we move through. Along the way, she is both witness and, often indirectly, subject—“I do not know how to hold the beauty and sorrow of my life,” she writes. This book is an attempt at an answer.“\u003cb\u003eEssential reading for those seeking magic on the page\u003c\/b\u003e . . . J.M.W. Turner comes to mind. In particular Turner’s late-stage work, when issues of craft have long been resolved and what we see if pure feeling, sublime and urgent.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cb\u003eCYNTHIA ZARIN \u003c\/b\u003ewas born in New York City and educated at Harvard and Columbia. She is the author of four previous collections, including most recently \u003ci\u003eThe Ada Poems,\u003c\/i\u003e as well as a book of essays, \u003ci\u003eAn Enlarged Heart,\u003c\/i\u003e and several books for children. She is a longtime contributor to \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e and the recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Ingram Merrill Foundation. A winner of the Peter I. B. Lavan Younger Poets Award and the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003eBook Prize, she teaches at Yale and lives in New York City.flowers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning I was walking upstairs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the kitchen, carrying your\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebeautiful flowers, the flowers you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebrought me last night, calla lilies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand something else, I am not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esure what to call them, white flowers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof course you had no way of knowing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit has been years since I bought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhite ­flowers—­but now you have\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand here they are again. I was carrying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour flowers and a coffee cup\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand a soft yellow handbag and a book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof poems by a Chinese poet, in\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhich I had just read the words “come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor go but don’t just stand there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the doorway,” as usual I was\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecarrying too many things, you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewould have laughed if you saw me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt seemed especially important\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot to spill the coffee as I usually\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edo, as I turned up the stairs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside the whorl of the house as if\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI were walking up inside the lilies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI do not know how to hold all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe beauty and sorrow of my life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emeltwater\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA gang of foxes on the wet road, fur\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egaggle, the gutter a Ganges, gravel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erutting the glacier’s slur and cant. Old proof,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe past can’t solve itself, endlessly drawing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits stung logos spirograph. You see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe fox I cannot see; even the children\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecan see her, vixen and her babies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edelicately picking their way along\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe white line of the tarmac, the rain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erubbing out their shadows. I want you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas I want water, rain crocheting moss\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom mist, sulfur on the pines’ crooked limbs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehapless as the selkie who hums to ­herself—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno one believes in her but there she is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efaun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe faun you can see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher lariat of bone unfolding\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe faun in your arms\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher legs buckled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emoon-­mouth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003evelvet, her breath keyed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewater\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erasping the bridge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebarnacles ringing the pilings\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­black pearls,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe ­faun’s breath spiral,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecircling your head,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Horn of Africa\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epausing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­digitalis,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecinquefoil, starburst\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epulsing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto where we walked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the end, to what we\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethought was the end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emirror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy fate to meet my eyes where I’d meet yours,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis early morning streaked with soot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emottled where your dreaming hand should put\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy hand to rest on your still waking brow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ejibing the night’s ­storm-­battered prow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eheaven’s third power, that makes another fast\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebe one of two, then, the scow safely ­moored—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(eyes shut) wish that was for me first be last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eorbit\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eje vais voir l’ombre que tu devins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­mallarmé\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat evening when you were standing by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe shelves and song came back to you after\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea long silence, never broken even once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut for a shadow crossing your path, a murmur\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof some ­long-­ago breath, speeches as nursery rhymes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSt. Crispin or the children chanting, please you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enight and day, or the stained glass of the bay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas it opened for you when the tide rose\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto meet the twilight. But never asking for you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho had become a bystander, salt caked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby salt to a pillar and even then slipshod\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith the truth. That swerving eel whose charge switches\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe current is you, not another, slick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etail—­remorse—­caught in its own mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house a shell and not a shell. Dreaming,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stop at each turn of the stair, ­kite\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewinder, the balustrade’s tipped ladder tracking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einfinity, each door a lid shut tight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy damp snail foot, proboscis, wrack fishtail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow can I swim up so many stories?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the landing, furs. Gloves. A walking stick,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandfather in his overcoat, clearing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis throat, the winter smell of carnations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tried to write it down but lost. Missed tread.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFootfall of what the dead said. Don’t, or do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll ear, I have no hands. Lunatic hero,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe hermit crab who keeps me company\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturns me over, nebulae, on my back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll day a playing card at the kitchen stair’s hairpin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eseven diamonds, each red gem a step, Mnemosyne’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edaughters, ­sun-­sprockets, whirring to make you listen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a sequined pillow from Bombay, our Una’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epapoose doll sits up beneath The Book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof Justice, a ­pop‑up fugue whose page unfolds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea toothpick temple, each strut a reliquary,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits cellophane banner sheer petroleum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy midnight, the card picked up: tears, ­doom-­bringer,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efutility: the owl asking its question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the barking of dogs. Rusks and cardamom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf Chronos comes to Hecate’s door, what use\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis squabbling? ­Yew-­eyed, the cat mews the stair,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher footprints red after she steps on glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDusk. Bee’s Sea of Monsters butts the ­chair—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits shiny cover wreathed with lashing tails\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile eight steps up, the ­kite winder, littered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith gilt ribbons, sails into Whitehall’s ­helter-­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eskelter. I sit “on the stares.” Fight or flight?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDownstairs, on pink ice, powdered ginger\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espackles the Victorian ­mold’s flutes with gold,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ered lily pollen, prodded, makes us all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMacbeth. Tonight’s story? Trawling for loot,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewan Elnora, “A Girl of the Limberlost,”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epulls from her torn pocket a scrimshaw boy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea locket, a painted ­top—­each butterfly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe nets a flustered treble note. We’re not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egood at being good, nor being ­“good-­at.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe fireplace log breathes fire, pooled amber,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebejeweled topaz lighting a goblet. The air\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis sap. Dragon, the pine log shatters to\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea monkey face, two knots for eyes, ­then—­gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat else eats itself alive? The child, not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeating, rattles her shark spine, wind chimes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor Belsen’s banging door that only shuts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNorth, the smudged mill towns carbonize, each one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edilated, black iris beneath the day’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecloud-­muddied brow, horizon’s dorsal fin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esnow grey, as if the flooded dawn held dusk,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe shark’s inamorata sunset’s skinned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eknuckle try at holding ­fast—­gunpowder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esky that drinks smoke from an hourglass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach one Echo (spitting image of Narcissus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein diminuendo), the seven sisters play\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebridge on their ­upside-­down card table,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etheir meteor ­go-­cart running on a firecracker.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir swaged tablecloth is the snow sky settling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the dark town. Who could do wrong? The eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the world opens and shuts. Remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe legs under the table, silk and suede,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epine bark, sharp hooves, clattering? We spoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein whispers, hardly ­breathing—­house of cards\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere every breath disturbs the dreaming portraits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShuffle the deck. The prince’s tiny twitching\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edog is dreaming us: dust and ore, secret, alive,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eanimal, just past vision’s humming line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy can’t I want anything I want? But,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCosmo, I do. Posthumous, our loves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutlive us: hardtack, lemons, sassafras,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esoap-­skiff floating in the claw foot tub,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe windlass a girl blowing bubbles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould that we’d known? A whitened cloud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof peppered moths, the children’s old de teum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edim the lamp and singe the too light evening\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand turn the sky’s slashed moiré tangerine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bartered forty summers for black ­pearls—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe cat’s black tail, scorch mark, rounds the kicked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshut door. On ­Wings Neck two deer eat and graze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slip and water slops the stairs. Where I am\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emet is meat. What we knew we know was there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe light through the wicker chair makes ­star-­crossed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ediamonds on the coffee cup, each watery\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecrystal quartz alit tells lies or makes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethings up. What will I do with my life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRolled up the map of Angers—­somewhere ­else—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eresists, its antique blue print paper folds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ean origami house on fire, its routes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand rivers set ablaze, the blown up ­center—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecourt, steeple, winding ­stair—­a burnt out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003echarcoal spyhole. Between the lines? In\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe kitchen of the dragon king, the hooked carp,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espeaking, has one wish: life as we know it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnow-­nothing, the curling paper serpent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esheds his printed skin but leaves me mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTea-­smoked duck on a sugar stick, at\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe restaurant where in the dream I changed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etables and changed tables. Everything M. gave me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewas a ­box—­a glass box with pink transparent sides,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea cloisonné parfumerie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you want these boots? the dream said. I walked for miles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough racks of shoes, among the voodoo ­dolls—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut those are Martin’s, I said. But who is Martin?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen ­woke—­I am half turned ­away—­to rain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand ­didn’t think, a meal ­half-­cooked, the stove aflame,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003educk legs puckered running red, the cat left out all night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edrenched and ­I—­you don’t think, who have failed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeveryone I love, my hair a fright wig\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy heart a bat that bangs its head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShellacked with ice, the street a cracked snow globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhose magic pool drips serum. Mystery or venom?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReading aloud in our ­cocoa-­cum-­coffee cloud,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiss Stanton, stepdaughter of Woking, Surrey,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edrops her veil. It’s not sorrow she feels, but terror,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethen ­comedy—­the bull butting his maze\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof twigs, the baboon rattling the bedroom door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs love labor? Pacem, ­heart-­ease. Our shadows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eslip. In the ashram’s ­hand-­thrown toffee bowl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(our guru has a sweet tooth, he likes M\u0026amp;Ms)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe narcissus, ­one-­eyed, strains against\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits makeshift chopstick stake to bloom. My pen,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eleaking, blots and counts to ten, its indigo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edilation drawing water rings on the ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShips’ time, the East River’s septet of islands,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeach triangle mast raised to a tin star.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind settles. Scant block from the cold bank,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy love, ­bell-­ringer at ten, at five, star-hive,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ediminishes to a speck, the ­wind’s fugue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etripling her internal rhyme. That watermark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhite quartz I kept, Mab’s stone, whose ripples\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhet the air her horses reined, her rune her wand,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour eye for ­mine—­your taloned verses held\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esmall birds in air until they sang. When you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturned to speak I bit my tongue and thought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot mine. Come to me now. Heaven’s geometry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis hesitation’s proof; the triangle’s sharp\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enote—­tin hitting ­crystal—­makes us stop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cranberry ­bogs—­plush seats at La Fenice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut the sky’s aria after weeks of rain?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBee sting, a swarm of buttercups, mercury\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emonogrammed with fever. Three wishes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven the simple know to ask for ­more—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe ­baby’s hand a star, the blinded\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emeasuring snake a Möbius strip. Whom did Clotho\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estrangle but herself? Too many things\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eare possible in this world, Lachesis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFall is summer’s bronze wing, it soars, then dips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven Atropos is ­unpredictable—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea knife makes a fiddle of a breastbone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea torn field mouse flicking rubies. My life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebe my life, scarecrow punting at the moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTransit of mist, the blistered, peeling ­trees—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eice in the doorway makes us slip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand grab the brass knob that will and will not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturn. To choose a book is to ­choose—­what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Dalloway, by the telephone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esteps out and shuts the door, the sky above Hyde Park\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erickracked with clouds. Slight wind. Boot lifted above\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea rainbow puddle. Do you remember?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe took a stick and twirled the gutter’s oily\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epond until the colors parted, Joseph’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecoat, ragtag, the early sunset’s bagatelle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove, if I could look at ­you—­our life bleeds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto every corner; the sky’s lavender lozenge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewindow, future tense, stores everything we do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat rainbow amounts to anything?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bracelet’s lanyard on my ­wrist—­woven\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emanacle, one a summer, for ­mama—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efaint blush of mold on the sky’s scud rim,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe horizon a bird blind high above Longnook\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall bluff, the dune bowling down meteors,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits fatal hollows scored by falling timber,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espawn ghostwriting the ­low-­tide mark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere are my happy loves? Right from wrong,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe simple past, asperity a rough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVenus, a mermaid and her twin seal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eself, the bloodred wax that stamps the letter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea welt on her fern tail, an x marking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe spot where the light was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esummer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor Max Ritvo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree weeks until summer and ­then—­what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMidsummer’s gravity makes our heads spin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeach hour a gilt thread spool, winding through\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe second hand, gossamer fin de semaine,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efin de siècle, fin slicing the water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the ­too-­cold-­to-­breathe bay, molten silver,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethen receding as if we ­hadn’t seen it,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esultan of so long, see you tomorrow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDead man’s fingers, lady’s slippers, a seal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho swims too ­close—­too close for what? The needle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eswerves. Our element chooses us. Water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efire, air, ­earth—­the rosebush, Lazarus,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehot to the touch, gold reticulate, is ­love’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebull’s-­eye, attar rising from the rafters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eii\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I could make it stop I would. Was it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe crocodile Hook feared, or was it time?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ­hour’s arrow never misses, the gnomon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglinting, cuts the ­Day-­Glo sun to pieces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the ultraviolet palace of the Mermaid King\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis girls wear scallop shells, one for each year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon their turquoise tails. Even they have birthdays,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhy not you? Death, hold your ponies with one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehand, and stay awhile. On my desk, the ­lion’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epaw lamp scavenged from the winter beach,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits ­poppy-­colored shells like the lit scales\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof an enormous Trojan fish . . . ​teeth chattering,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits metronome time bomb tsk ­tsk—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen is giving up not giving in?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eiii (child’s pose)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Alice pulled the stopper, did she get\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esmaller, or did the world get larger? In\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe bath, your nose bleeds a bouquet of tissue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eroses, white stained ­red—­adolescence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis to overdo it, but ­really? Thirty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estories up, our ­birds’-­eye view is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe hummingbird tattoo on your bare head,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewings beating, too tiny and too big to see,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour ­wire-­thin profile drawn upright, bones\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edaring the air, marionette running on\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe brain’s dark marrow, tungsten for the fireflies’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efreeze tag. Due south, the Chrysler Building’s gauntlet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eholds a lit syringe. We do and do not change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet me go from here to anywhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eiv\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s it for now. And so we turn the page\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour poems standing in for you, ­or—­that’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot it, ­what’s left of you, mediating\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween what you’d call mind and body\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I, by now biting my lip, call grief,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe lines netting the enormous air\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike silver threads, the tails of Mr. Edwards’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espiders with which they sail from ledge to branch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“as when the soul feels jarred by nervous thoughts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand catch on air.” Pace. Your trousers worn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto mouse fur dragging on the stoop, your hip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eprongs barely holding them aloft, the past\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea phaeton, its sunlit reins bucking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat before and after, but there is no after.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ev\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr is there? For once, when you rock back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the chair I don’t say don’t do that,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eforelegs lifting, hooves pawing the ­air—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery departure’s an elopement,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe shy cat fiddling while Rome sizzles,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espoon mirror flipping us upside down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSon of Helios, rainbow fairy lights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblazing, when one light goes out they all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ego out. At the top of the dune, the thorny\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecrowns of buried trees, their ­teeter-­totter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebranches a candelabra for the spiders’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esilvery halo of threads. What a terrible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebusiness it is, saying what you mean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeak, sky, the horizon scored by talons.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305291829477,"sku":"NP9780451494726","price":27.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451494726.jpg?v=1767734252","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/orbit-isbn-9780451494726","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}