аЯрЁБс>ўџ ўџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџмЅhcр e4!140l0ll0l0l0l0l0€0€0€0€0€0€0 Š0(€0Д0=В0В0В0В0В0В0В0В0В0Д0Д0Д0Д0Д0Д0ё0XI18Д0l0В0В0В0В0В0Д0В0l0l0В0В0В0В0В0В0l0В0l0В0В0к;Д€0€0l0l0l0l0В0В0В0В0MY DAUGHTER AND APPLE PIE She serves me a piece of it a few minutes out of the oven. A little steam rises from the slits on top. Sugar and spice- cinnamon-burned into the crust. But she's wearing these dark glasses in the kitchen at ten o'clock in the morning-everything nice- as she watches me break off a piece, bring it to my mouth, and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen, in winter. I fork the pie in and tell myself to stay out of it. She says she loves him. No way could it be worse. IOWA SUMMER The paperboy shakes me awake. "I have been dreaming you'd come," I tell him, rising from the bed. He is accompanied by a giant Negro from the university who seems itching to get his hands on me. I stall for time. Sweat runs off our faces; we stand waiting. I do not offer them chairs and no one speaks. It is only later, after they've gone, I realize they have delivered a letter. It's a letter from my wife. "What are you doing there?" my wife asks. "Are you drinking?" I study the postmark for hours. Then it, too, begins to fade. I hope someday to forget all this. CHEERS Vodka chased with coffee. Each morning I hang the sign on the door: OUT TO LUNCH but no one pays attention; my friends look at the sign and sometimes leave little notes, or else they call-Come out and play, Ray-mond. Once my son, that bastard, slipped in and left me a colored egg and a walking stick. I think he drank some one my vodka. And last week my wife dropped by with a can of beef soup and a carton of tears. She drank some of vodka, too, I think, then left hurriedly in a strange car with a man Iеd never seen before. They don't understand; Iеm fine, just fine where I am, for any day now I shall be, I shall be, I shall beЩ I intend to take all the time in this world, consider everything, even miracles, yet remain on guard, ever more careful, more watchful, against those who would sin against me, against those who would steal vodka, against those who would do me harm. MORNING, THINKING OF EMPIRE We press our lips to the enameled rim of the cups and know this grease that floats over the coffee will one day stop our hearts. Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware that is not silverware. Outside the window, waves beat against the chipped walls of the old city. Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth as if to prophesy. Your lips trembleЩ I want to say to hell with the future. Our future lies deep in the afternoon. It is a narrow street with a cart and driver, a driver who looks at us and hesitates, then shakes his head. Meanwhile, I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghorn chicken. Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across the rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still. I crack the other egg. Surely we have diminished one another. AFGHANISTAN The sad music of roads lined with larches. The forest in the distance resting under snow. They Khyber Pass. Alexander the Great. History, and lapis lazuli. No books, no pictures, no knick-knacks please me. But she pleases me. And lapis lazuli. That blue stone she wears on her dear finger. That pleases me exceedingly. The bucket clatters into the well. And brings up water with a sweet taste to it. The towpath along the river. The footpath Through the grove of almonds. My love Goes everywhere in her sandals. And wears lapis lazuli on her finger. HIGHWAY 99E FROM CHICO The mallard ducks are down for the night. They chuckle in their sleep and dream of Mexico and Honduras. Watercress nods in the irrigation ditch and the tules slump forward, heavy with blackbirds. Rice fields float under the moon. Even the wet maple leaves cling to my windshield. I tell you Maryann, I am happy. MY WIFE My wife has disappeared along with her clothes. She left behind two nylon stockings, and a hairbrush overlooked behind the bed. I should like to call your attention to these shapely nylons, and to the strong dark hair caught in the bristles of the brush. I drop the nylons in the garbage sack; the brush Iеll keep and use. It is only the bed that seems strange and impossible to account for. AN AFTERNOON As he writes, without looking at the sea, he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble. The tide is going out across the shingle. But it isn't that. No, it's because at that moment she chooses to walk into the room without any clothes on. Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead. Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her through the doorway. Maybe she's remembering what happened that morning. For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him. And sweetly smiles. ALL HER LIFE I lay down for a nap. But every time I closed my eyes, mares' tails passed slowly over the Strait toward Canada. And the waves. They rolled up on the beach and then back again. You know I don't dream. But last night I dreamt we were watching a burial at sea. At first I was astonished. And then filled with regret. But you touched my arm and said, "No, it's all right. She was very old, and he'd loved her all her life." GRIEF Woke up early this morning and from my bed looked far across the Strait to see a small boat moving through the choppy water, a single running light on. Remembered my friend who used to shout his dead wife's name from hilltops around Perugia. Who set a plate for her at his simple table long after she was gone. And opened the windows so she could have fresh air. Such display I found embarrassing. So did his other friends. I couldn't see it. Not until this morning. SEPTEMBER September, and somewhere the last of the sycamore leaves have returned to earth. Wind clears the sky of clouds. What's left here? Grouse, silver salmon, and the struck pine not far from the house. A tree hit by lightning. But even now beginning to live again. A few shoots miraculously appearing. Stephen Foster's "Maggie by My Side" plays on the radio. I listen with my eyes far away. AFTER-GLOW The dusk of evening comes on. Earlier a little rain had fallen. You open a drawer and find inside the man's photograph, knowing he has only two years to live. He doesn't know this, of course, that's why he can mug for the camera. How could he know what's taking root in his head at that moment? If one looks to the right through boughs and tree trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the after-glow. No shadows, no half-shadows. It is still and dampЩ. The man goes on mugging. I put the picture back in its place along with the others and give my attention instead to the after-glow along the far ridge, light golden on the roses in the garden. Then, I can't help myself, I glance once more at the picture. The wink, the broad smile, the jaunty slant of the cigarette. SHOOTING I wade through wheat up to my belly, cradling a shotgun in my arms. Tess is asleep back at the ranch house. The moon pales. Then loses face completely as the sun spears up over the mountains. Why do I pick this moment to remember my aunt taking me aside that time and saying, What I am going to tell you now you will remember every day of your life? But that's all I can remember. I've never been able to trust memory. My own or anyone else's. I'd like to know what on earth I'm doing here in this strange regalia. It's my friend's wheat-this much is true. And right now, his dog is on point. Tess is opposed to killing for sport, or any other reason. Yet not long ago she threatened to kill me. The dog inches forward. I stop moving. I can't see or hear my breath any longer. Step by tiny step, the day advances. Suddenly, the air explodes with birds. Tess sleeps through it. When she wakes, October will be over. Guns and talk of shooting behind us. 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