2015 by Richie Hofmann All rights reserved Alice James Books are published by Alice James Poetry Cooperative, Inc., an affiliate of the University of Maine at Farmington. Alice James Books 114 Prescott Street Farmington, ME 04938 www.alicejamesbooks.org eISBN: 978-1-938584-30-5 Cover Art: Fernando Vicente - Serie Atlas - Grito, www.fernandovicente.es NOTE TO THE READER Alice James Books encourages you to calibrate your e-reader device settings using the line of characters below as a guide, which optimizes the line length and character size: You wait out this tempest in the Windsor chair, away from the windows. Please take the time to adjust the size of the text on your viewer so the line of characters above appears on one line, if possible. Doing this will most accurately reproduce the layout of the text intended by the author. Viewing the title at a higher than optimal text size or on a device too small to accomodate the lines in the text will cause the reading experience to be altered considerably; single lines of some poems may be displayed as multiple lines of text.
Acknowledgments The author wishes to thank the editors of the following publications:
32 Poems: Bright Walls (as Untitled), Fly
The Adroit Journal: Midwinter
The Common: The Harbor
Cosmonauts Avenue: The Gates
Denver Quarterly: Antique Book (as Song)
Devils Lake: Scene from
CaravaggioFIELD: Imperium, Abendlied
Gulf Coast: Description, The Surround, Gatekeeper
Harvard Divinity Bulletin: Capriccio
Indiana Review: Sea Interlude: Storm
Lambda Literary Review: At the Palais Garnier, Egyptian Cotton
Maggy: Purple
The Massachusetts Review: Amor Vincit Omnia
The Missouri Review: Sea Interlude: Dawn, Sea Interlude: Passacaglia, Sea Interlude: Moonlight
The New Criterion: Illustration from
Parsifal, Mirror
New England Review: Night Ferry
The New Republic: October 29, 2012
The New Yorker: Idyll
The Paris-American: Allegory
Ploughshares: After
Poetry: Fresco, Keys to the City, Imperial City
Poetry Northwest: The Ships
Shenandoah: Braying
The Southern Review: Egyptian Bowl with Figs
Southwest Review: First Night in Stonington
Tin House Online: Second Empire
The Yale Review: Three Cranes Fresco was reprinted in
T: The New York Times Style Magazine. Braying was reprinted on Poetry Daily.
Acknowledgments The author wishes to thank the editors of the following publications:
32 Poems: Bright Walls (as Untitled), Fly
The Adroit Journal: Midwinter
The Common: The Harbor
Cosmonauts Avenue: The Gates
Denver Quarterly: Antique Book (as Song)
Devils Lake: Scene from
CaravaggioFIELD: Imperium, Abendlied
Gulf Coast: Description, The Surround, Gatekeeper
Harvard Divinity Bulletin: Capriccio
Indiana Review: Sea Interlude: Storm
Lambda Literary Review: At the Palais Garnier, Egyptian Cotton
Maggy: Purple
The Massachusetts Review: Amor Vincit Omnia
The Missouri Review: Sea Interlude: Dawn, Sea Interlude: Passacaglia, Sea Interlude: Moonlight
The New Criterion: Illustration from
Parsifal, Mirror
New England Review: Night Ferry
The New Republic: October 29, 2012
The New Yorker: Idyll
The Paris-American: Allegory
Ploughshares: After
Poetry: Fresco, Keys to the City, Imperial City
Poetry Northwest: The Ships
Shenandoah: Braying
The Southern Review: Egyptian Bowl with Figs
Southwest Review: First Night in Stonington
Tin House Online: Second Empire
The Yale Review: Three Cranes Fresco was reprinted in
T: The New York Times Style Magazine. Braying was reprinted on Poetry Daily.
Midwinter was reprinted on Best of the Net 2014. After was reprinted in Best New Poets 2014, edited by Dorianne Laux and Jazzy Danziger. For generous financial and artistic support, the author thanks the Poetry Foundation, Emory University, Johns Hopkins University, the James Merrill House, the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College, West Chester University Poetry Conference, the Sewanee Writers Conference, Bread Loaf Writers Conference, and the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. For encouragement, thank you to Natasha Trethewey, Mary Jo Salter, Emily Leithauser, Jacques J. Rancourt, Tarfia Faizullah, Lisa Hiton, and especially Kara van de Graaf. Thank you, Ryan Hagerty.
Thank you, family. This book is for Ryan. SEA INTERLUDE: DAWN Smoke-green mist leans into the rocks, where fishermen whistle and mend their nets, practicing rituals of brotherhood before the luster of sky and sun, which flashes against the pale horizon with the oily turbulence of a swarm of herring. Above, the familiar gulls shriek the news of the world. The ocean gurgles a dead language. Standing at the waters edge, I watch myself loosen into a brief, exquisite blur, like Antinos, nearly naked in the cold, in the morning gone adrift, turning away from love toward what he knows, even then, is loss. IDYLL Cicadas bury themselves in small mouths of the trees hollow, lie against the bark-tongues like amulets, though I am praying I might shake off this skin and be raised from the ground again.
I have nothing to confess. I dont yet know that I possess a body built for love. When the wind grazes its way toward something colder, you too will be changed. One life abrades another, rough cloth, expostulation. When I open my mouth, I am like an insect undressing itself. THREE CRANES Wading low through marsh and grass, quick and cautious, the crane, too, knows this: there is a freedom in submitting to another.
Cranes mate for life. With necks outstretched, they take flight, a double arrows stab of silver, released and then gone. I have searched for nourishment in you, like a long, black beak in the earth. How was I to know what I would find there? Every night, we shrieked our presence to each other, desire or grief lacquering us onto our lives like birds on a paneled screen.
All winter long, the men built another bridge, stacking slabs of metal and concrete near the barrier island where we lived. I was worried we had fallen from each other.
Silent on the beach, we watched machines hoisted on and off the earth. Standing one-legged in the marsh: a crane, all steel and orange light, binding the horizon. What will become of us? I almost said. Gulls wove in and out of the cables, shrieking up and down within the stacks, in unison, I noticed, with our breath. It almost looked like a living thing.
Lying on my stomach, reading Cranes letters again, I felt a hand behind me.
Orange light pressed the window. The hand that touched my shoulder was yours (I know now there is such a thing as indestructibility). Your confessor, I listened for your breath (the cables enclosing us and pulling us upward), but felt only the ceiling fan, and traffic, somewhere, chafing against a wet street. Then, your lips on my neck (I think the sea has thrown itself upon me and been answered) before I closed the book and turned my body under yours.