Not Yet PentecostYou prayed to be made whole.But God pressed, into your hand,a stone carved by Ritsosin the prison camp of a skyyet to concede the rainfor which day begs, yet topermit such wind asproves the presence ofan elsewhere, if onlybeneath the crust of theplanet, where all has collapsed.Oceans are draining into the sun.Even shadows admit:the light that makes themis unfathomable. Mustold beliefs die, sothat the red blossomswill become, as newthoughts darken, notthe fruit of the tree,but the agony of the air,hovering above stemsthat deny the truthdescending upon themlike the tragic opposite oftongues of flame?None gathered graspseven their own language.The only revelationis deepening pain.A New Law on the EarthYou, no longer havinga key to your own house,are a Samaritan, beatenand left on the side of the road.Your mind may fly ahead,but you hurt here.Again, all life is underthe influence ofa faithless star.Maybe, wake later,when Antarctica is, once again,rain forest, when the innerpart of the sun hasnot yet died,when, amid all,the virus unveilsnew ways of being:alive, dead, andnot alive.Greater AdriaLife in time having beena sandbar rising when the tide is out,a mid-river crest, a slender beach, there, then not,twice a day, where pure poursinto salt, all know when,jump in a boat and go therewith siblings and dogs and picnicsand fold up chairs for the old,so to have a great time,at a different time, each day,as the summer intensifies.Other folks show up too, fromacross the bay, or from islands,could be twenty boats there,people seen nowhere butthe sandbar, friends knownonly then and there, on this transientisland, there for hours, then not.High school kids have summersandbar crushes, a loveonly abiding in this rising,then inundating, moment.Each visit to the sandbarhas that tragic recognition,so much part of the fun!When water first rushes intoa cluster of chairs, all knowthe sea is coming, the islandis sinking. The boats are pulledcloser as each group packs up.The entire sinking kingdomsays goodbye. The wavesrush over our feet, the sandgleams under the water.Our island is about to notbe there, where we justhad so much fun, secretfun in a place few know,that will arise at a differenttime tomorrow. Some ask:Can't the boat linger? Can't wewatch the sandbar dip,plunge under the rising,backwash? Can't we stay untilall that's left of our joy is a glowbelow the darkening surface?*The island of my childhoodhowever, was all forest. My mother,a dancer, wore elaborate glitteringcostumes made from tinfoil,as if she were royalty, and toldstories about a demonwho lived in the woods,a demon very tall and witha terrifying cry. Mine isan island of nothingbut woods. The nightbefore Carnival, men paintedtheir faces and stalkedthe shadowy treeson stilts, to confirm thebeliefs of children thathell opened wideduring the night-longparty that kicked offthe weeklong party soprofound and wonderful,unlike any festivity in the States,except in my attic, whereI gather up figurinesand classic videogames.I have TVs, there, one madewhatever year a gamewas released. I keepthe TVs in a ringaround a swivel chair,where I sit in and switchcontrollers while turningfrom screen to screen.*The report aversthat planet is no trueother earth, morelike a mini-Neptune,light years off, lit by a reddwarf star, smaller,cooler, than the sun.Water could bein the air, there, butthe air's all hydrogen.The gravity is too greatfor any form of lifebut what slipsthrough the seethinglike a lethal snakeat an archaeological digin the flames of summer,say, in Alabama,back when thefederal governmentwas to flood a valley,but a law said theyneeded to testwhat will bethe depths ofa new lake for anylast native remains.We dug up clay pipes,pots, a copper badge.I was a college studentfrom Ohio gettingclass credit inDixie. I turnedbrown, my hairgot all blonde.I was all muscle, stuckin a dry county, butthe brother of thesheriff sold us beerout of his car. One day,thick as my arm a hugesnake got in my face,the most fatal kindI was later toldto be found there.I froze, but an olderguy jumped in and cutthe head off witha shovel. He saidwe should cook it up,and we did, and itwas delicious, the meatwhite and flakey, like a fish.*They wait along the crest wherethe backyard concludesin train trackspeering down intothe sky-blue bend.The immense engineenters the visible worldthen all run, downthe slippery hill,some pitch into thesoft, frosted grass,the ground shiningunder the foldedover yellowblades of grassthat seem paintedwith precision.The children are soHappy and alive alonga stretch of the Midwestin a life never lived butnonetheless dreamt,where, this wintermorning beforeschool, their breathis the only cloudin the blazingsky. The nextdream is notthis. Rather, youare shown in the mostunflattering terms,the world ofyour lowest chakra,as if to say that is where,rather than the Midwest,you more truly are.Your Kundalini serpentis not just asleepbut left half dead bywhatever attackssnakes, maybe a bird,a hawk or eagle or owl, a bird thatscans and swoops and strikes.What you feel climbingyour spine is a chill,an absence where thelife force should be.A butterfly has just floatedInto a sunlit patch of air,made an erratic tangle out ofmultiple directions,then drifted backinto shade. Its wingswere yellow and white.It was the envoy of the sun,sent to you from whereall life leads back to,where all isinnocent againand no one rolls on theground wailing andwishing to die.*All this keeps happening on a previouscontinent, one that once cradledAndalusia and Iran, Greater Adria,a land sunk below both sea andearth, limestone broken offfrom Gondwana, thattipped north, shatteringagainst Europe and, as it sank,spinning counterclockwise,so that all there is curved,broken stacked, as if insidethe house of the afterlife.Those residing there, boththose in the seat of truthfulness,and those in proximity tothe Invincible Presence,will be those who, in this world,do not seek to be higher andgreater there. They considerthemselves lesser, smallerthan others, and never lookupon themselves withthe eye of approval.Recently, it was asked ofone returning: “How didthey seem to you, the folkof the standing place?”He replied: “I saw manywhom, I would have hoped,had it not been for the factthat I was among them,God would forgive.”*This evening the skyover the Hudson was stillcaught up in the sunset, clouds,greying in places, but resplendentwith failing light. You dashed backto your Village brownstone,something, or someone,suddenly felt to be missing,maybe a guest to betaken to dinner, withcompanionable others.Was it that sharp-tonguedand stunning poet fromlong ago, not seen since,Fay Zwicky, so fiery,unapproachable, andincontrovertibly attractive,and all you knew of Australia,years ago, in her season of living inNew York? Who, then, in thatsmall circle who knew her,was not mesmerized,hearing her read aloudher masterpiece, “Kaddish”?And though she was dead(as in waking life) you amazedyourself, calling, in thedark hallway her name,Fay? No answer.(Even in dreams thepossible has limits, at leastat this point in the year, Virgotipping toward thecusp, before theliberation of Libra.)But you found, on the stair,a box. A manuscript was in it.And you knew she had beenthere, and left it for you.