("A heart-beat strung...")

JAMES KUGEL

From THE ASSEMBLYMAN

The sun rises, and the sun sets, and to the place where it

rises, there it hastens again.

A heart-beat strung with rosy hide is banging through the

treetops, albino of the future, strictly brain. Oh look, the

baby's blond, the beach blows yellower, billows up to

golden on its own. One thing's clear, the kid's got glamor,

gathers glances, and it's tough sitting still: he gains respect

as he advances.

High noon will zero in on what he's meant for, a mind

white-hot, and at the very top, in America, the power

clicks, but who would notice that the arc has turned?

Mid-day. A cut carnation sparkles in the undertaker's

lapel, never have things looked brighter, and this loss of

roots leaves him free as a glider, oh he'll soar! Young

divorcé, only now regains a touch of color- "the paper

yellowed, the book gets its perspective" -

This mellowing makes him accessible, he's famous! and of

course turns crafty: Oh cast a jaundiced eye on railroad ties,

engagement rings, car bumpers and the sides of buildings.

Afternoon, truly afternoon but nearly over. And he goes

sentimental, soft-head dodderer-See! A flock of neon

clouds, too many, the left-wing handouts of a pinko son

. poised at retirement, and then it's down down down and

what stays after's too diffuse

It spreads out faster than I understand it... This is the

ending and a sad sad truth my friend. And what shows up

on the other side tomorrow-is it nearly the same? Am I?

e

JAMES KUGEL

It is that sweetness, the failure to take charge of a life

Oh give me a hold before the stately playing fades, I take

one action with some deliberation while a sweet collar of

distant sounds rises around my hearing, give me my bearings,

if only for an instant

And always a little over the shoulder, the blatant badgering

of dog-stuck-to-a-chain . .. Sanctify the ripple of those

muscles, bless protein turned to protest in his Master's

service

I will complain

The yank around the neck outloves surrender, the dog

barks and barks

It is too doulce to the tooth, eyes can't get past the finish, ifI

could understand the underlying syncopation

It comes up red, black, black, black, red, black, red, red,

black, ah that's the trick but who keeps dealing, who makes

it perfec: every time? If I could get the rhythm

And the dog barks and barks

A bride gets young a moment, what a delight, the milky

stitches. All over the world it has come to this, a swaying

way of walking, never speaking, do I love your muscles, I

love your animal eyes

Then everywhere it's done, one by one their lights go out,

and meanwhile here come more, Good Glory! I will never

master names. Colored to a famous hue, secrets paltry and

beguiling, form an illusion, you's, and step in armies through

your doorways

Years later, yellow feet on sunny carpets, the enchantments

of a steaming cup heighten and remind our mourning

nerves: We have lost it, we have lost nearly everything,

and still they come, the young of every species, no wonder

they get started small or they'd be throttled for their future,

one advances by overlooking proof.

Afterwards there's nothing to do but settle with the diffi-

culties of rule, affairs of stables and the levying of taxes

Here's no advice that I can top: forget the maps, general,

when you've cleared the table you've said it all. . .

This is the way it dies, the steady slip, past the point when

one becomes aware that time is passing yet can still be cute

with time, like an aching tooth

Past when, having noticed, one is locked into a pattern of

noticing: the news flies off but the papers stay around for

weeks

Past even when it is almost all gone, and despairing, one

says that it is too late, although something remains

to the time when nothing remains, oh, I dream of one

control

Let there be an upshot, let my life be at least a warning, but

to whom? All our lives are a warning

I had come down to the beach again, asking my cells to

recall:

"I remember the Sea of Tranquillity and my feet on cold

sand-who grew these grains?-it had to be a miracle we

survived. Up in one corner of the sky, a divine light-blue

idea went on like clock-work, light blue! That kept us going,

JAMES KUGEL

a dream of blue, salt water always on the move, the pop

and press of seaweed, tangled at the ankles..."

Keeps us going still... Now a man might think to rise

to that perspective, only for the seeing, one look-But oh

my Heavens I feel old

And if for every thing there is a season then vice versa, and

when the season's over:

Joys of the beach, the pure gold confirmation of the cycle

Hands too heavy to hold, the future bargaining, shimmering

The evidence is everywhere, acres dotted with the sparse

savannah, and somewhere endlessly rocking, an empty

socket turned up to the morning

The wilderness is flat and empty, the sky flat and very

blue; the faintest vapor rising from the cartilage, but by

noon there will be nothing

Today less than ever am I sure...

So it's a merry merry mix-up, the animal twitches, what

does he know? Passed him by is all; the mind screams,

whistles a train through the midst of so much knowledge,

then "The end of the matter... " It is too rich

Sometimes I have not liked it but there is nothing like being

alive; then written down, a life leans to connections

This was a coming to the point, the writing; but how can

life's career be kept distinct from one long morning, what

had been gone through, climbing with the sun? It's all a

vapor, don't you see, the sheerest glimmering

"As the goodness grows so increases what absorbs it, there

is nothing like the seeing of the eye,"

And yes, it's an air, a breath, a tossing in the sunlight

Oh fiercest at your rising

sheet of fire