The health of life. The health of love. And the health of hate. By then, he will be beyond help, or health, and you may say what you like for as long as you like, as well or as poorly as you know how.
picnic in ten years’ time
2004
composed of: BESTIARY nos. 1–17 and LATER MANUAL
If, in a crowd of thousands there is preserved one who knows me, then I go free.
1
Bestiary nos. 1–17
The first dream in which I had the sensation of my true situation while asleep occurs in the 207th night; the second in the 214th.
Hervey de Saint-Denys, 1867
It Was a Later Century
I woke in the midst of a deep sleep,
some sleep such as comes over
the entirety of the world, that lasts
an infinite and indefinite period;
that, when finished, is scarcely marked
by those who slept. Out in the world
things were quiet. I went to the house
of the girl I love. She was asleep.
I dressed her, and took her with me
over my shoulder. By the river I picked
cornflowers. It was a glorious day.
From a great distance I saw a picnic,
a party of revelers, a dog. But so far,
would we ever reach them?
My girl did not answer, but looked
lovely I may tell you, in blue cotton.
I began to cross the plain.
If the day stays still we may
yet reach the other side,
to picnic there in ten years’ time.
Arravelli’s “View of Loum,” 1542.
There are three walking by the small river,
dividing the world’s belongings
into three. A hatted man in a road-stained cloak.
To the left, a miller bent upon a stick, who seems,
though crippled, to ask no help of his daughter,
she who wanders there
in the composition, the daylight rolled up
like a map against her scarlet hair.
They have been talking some time it seems
without passing beyond that row of hills
the young traveler would have crossed to come
to this crisis, to this dwelling place.
And yes, there is a mill, some four brushstrokes
delicately upon a distant withered lawn. Economy
constitutes this life: the daughter has but one
dress, that she wears; she has but one suitor,
soon to pass away; but one father, hateful,
gathering the plurals of sadness to himself;
one sadness, shared like bread; one world, beyond,
evoked once by the single traveler who has seen her
stark against foreshortened youth. For they grow old,
these wild daughters, bound to fathers
in grim lands. In them grief is a yellow tree, encircled
by a fence of bird-like angels. No shout will cause
this flock to rise to air. And here the light
is never strong enough for the face upon waking,
though it pools where the animals sleep,
and comes radiant at night through unreachable
fields, through windows which, seen with closed eyes,
confirm all dread—elsewhere there is a dance
that many have joined. She winces, and her one hand
is joined by the other, as if it were the painter himself, who,
painting an arm to hold the arm which looked
so hard to bear, had given himself away.
He was this traveler, Arravelli, who lied and yet did not lie, a young man who said he would return.
The Privileged Girl Speaks
Whatever you do by the margin,
don’t touch the tree line. It’s poisonous.
Grandfather planted it sixty years ago
to keep things out. He’s the only one
it cares for. You should see
the old man take a walk. He goes along
the forest edge, whistling, “St. Pierre is Home”
and it opens like a door
into some other wooden room.
Bestiary 1
It was a gray sun that stood at the door that day
and asked me for some water. Deny the sun
a cup of water? I could not.
And let me tell you something else. If it had asked
for a bed I’d have given it a bed. If it had asked
for a roasted calf, I’d have given it a roasted calf.
Soon after it left, I felt empty. I went
back to my needlepoint—three yellow bees
trying to escape from the Archangel Gabriel.
They’d stung him rather badly
on his hands and on the loose and careless
portions of his wings.
A Set Piece
to be told at gatherings
The resignation of the sheriff left nothing to be done. The populace of that tiny hamlet poured out into the cramped streets, half-dressed and quarrelsome. Shops were broken into. Women were vigorously affronted. Men too were affronted, with equal vigor and panache. Many living near the municipal zoo were beaten by a crowd of contrary children. I taught everyone a hymn I had written, complete with musical accompaniment. It went:
Kill us if you like,
but you won’t like Hell
when you do (when you do)
come to (come to)
in the heat (in the hot)
in the hot (in the heat)
in the goddamn fire of the Lord.
I pretend now to have made it up, but actually an old woman sang it to me when I menaced her husband with my little knife. I wanted their