Epidemic
Jorie Graham
We have done what we wanted.
We have multiplied ourselves.
There is not enough room.
People must die faster to make room.
Every now and then I look out the window and the
sunlit fields
come in, also the intricate hoarfrost on them, the
shadows of branches, the sparrows
feeding, the wings drifting south, the bellying up of undercloud,
the idea of
the whole—this will lodge in me—this will die altogether
in me with me
when I die—
We have done what we wanted.
The heap of corpses.
The aim is the heap of corpses.
There is no cure those it attacks expect execution those
seized by contagion constitute a crowd their
numbers
grow with increasing speed they are moving towards
a common goal which they shall reach
in a few days the end the greatest density
of human bodies pressed together a heap according
to
some to rise again before God in ranks awaiting
more judgment more judgment now filling the streets
the temples the
hospitals the ground one on top of
the other more judgment were you good why
thousands of you were good why
*
How beautiful
the goldfinch seems to have come to the door
how beautiful one thing ceases another begins
how beautiful the hawk will never complete his circle
how beautiful you have been deceived into thinking
how beautiful your book is on your table waiting
how beautiful deceived deceived by whom who first
put their hand over your eyes their
hand over your face bent you down put the book in
your hand said go forth
how beautiful do you remember was it carrying a
stick
how beautiful have you seen something is there
something stand up
I have seen this bending of neck in the
swan I have seen you look past the gaze coming at
you I have seen
the flight upward of a flock in unison tell them go, go,
there is no
wrong way,
and the wrong way how beautiful the insect-tunneled
wood the silly life expectancy the
getting away with it till it catches up how
beautiful it is catching up bright shoots duration pale
vacuum you can never
have fear enough so why regret how beautiful all the
potential the loop the strangely familiar feeling as it
comes over one the great mistake
down to the tiniest decision anyone ever made
how beautiful the self the
pause the extended pause the taking up of the next
then the next
scatter the ashes yes you may share the pyre there
is not enough
fire to burn us all when will it be done
how much sicker will you get how beautiful
the clock struck one thy will be done
hickory dickoryhow beautiful
is there no-one left to come out to play
*
I don’t know somehow it seems sufficient (Ammons)
to hear and see whatever
coming and going is ( Ammons) losing the self to
victory to trees (Ginsberg)
moving in rivers of wind as on a wave, above
teeming ferns, along a green crag O self,
tell naught but what seen by one man in a vale of
mouths and eyes interknit (Ginsberg),
horned symmetry of satanic thistle flowering above
sister grass,
bloomlets angelic, heaven’s ocean, heaven’s
grassblade, roar of the mountain,
rolling down the shimmering blacktop and mowed
grass juice
to thicken the air ( Schuyler) made of untinted butter
frosting, inhaled, finding
one could live, goofy and underdressed with a loud
laugh (Schuyler) and June
with its toothpaste smile, someone stopping to break
off a piece and recite the lines—
also those in French—(Schuyler)—the air filled with a
busload of strangers—
and chalk from the banged erasers, and ice boats,
and the moment I was born, look,
one more day gone, done, it began it ended,slow,
fast,
a sun shone, clouds, I was for a while with others
( Creeley),
then came down on the ground again ( Creeley)
and how I am not afraid, look, my father is dying, we
have to cross
the street, we have to take the shape of the living,
look,
as a queen sits down knowing the chair will be there,
or the general raises his hand and is given the field
glasses,
or you nod through the fogbound prow at all the
suggestions--,
the hills suggesting themselves, the narrowness
suggesting itself,
the mark, your mark as you look forward suggesting
itself,
to whatever is up ahead which turns now to mark
your arrival with a small wind, small but firm, nothing
at your back,
you have not foreseen what lies beyond,
do not let the thought of it in,
there will come a moment when you cannot tell,
there will come a moment when you cannot tell.
We have multiplied ourselves.
There is not enough room.
People must die faster to make room.
Every now and then I look out the window and the
sunlit fields
come in, also the intricate hoarfrost on them, the
shadows of branches, the sparrows
feeding, the wings drifting south, the bellying up of undercloud,
the idea of
the whole—this will lodge in me—this will die altogether
in me with me
when I die—
We have done what we wanted.
The heap of corpses.
The aim is the heap of corpses.
There is no cure those it attacks expect execution those
seized by contagion constitute a crowd their
numbers
grow with increasing speed they are moving towards
a common goal which they shall reach
in a few days the end the greatest density
of human bodies pressed together a heap according
to
some to rise again before God in ranks awaiting
more judgment more judgment now filling the streets
the temples the
hospitals the ground one on top of
the other more judgment were you good why
thousands of you were good why
*
How beautiful
the goldfinch seems to have come to the door
how beautiful one thing ceases another begins
how beautiful the hawk will never complete his circle
how beautiful you have been deceived into thinking
how beautiful your book is on your table waiting
how beautiful deceived deceived by whom who first
put their hand over your eyes their
hand over your face bent you down put the book in
your hand said go forth
how beautiful do you remember was it carrying a
stick
how beautiful have you seen something is there
something stand up
I have seen this bending of neck in the
swan I have seen you look past the gaze coming at
you I have seen
the flight upward of a flock in unison tell them go, go,
there is no
wrong way,
and the wrong way how beautiful the insect-tunneled
wood the silly life expectancy the
getting away with it till it catches up how
beautiful it is catching up bright shoots duration pale
vacuum you can never
have fear enough so why regret how beautiful all the
potential the loop the strangely familiar feeling as it
comes over one the great mistake
down to the tiniest decision anyone ever made
how beautiful the self the
pause the extended pause the taking up of the next
then the next
scatter the ashes yes you may share the pyre there
is not enough
fire to burn us all when will it be done
how much sicker will you get how beautiful
the clock struck one thy will be done
hickory dickoryhow beautiful
is there no-one left to come out to play
*
I don’t know somehow it seems sufficient (Ammons)
to hear and see whatever
coming and going is ( Ammons) losing the self to
victory to trees (Ginsberg)
moving in rivers of wind as on a wave, above
teeming ferns, along a green crag O self,
tell naught but what seen by one man in a vale of
mouths and eyes interknit (Ginsberg),
horned symmetry of satanic thistle flowering above
sister grass,
bloomlets angelic, heaven’s ocean, heaven’s
grassblade, roar of the mountain,
rolling down the shimmering blacktop and mowed
grass juice
to thicken the air ( Schuyler) made of untinted butter
frosting, inhaled, finding
one could live, goofy and underdressed with a loud
laugh (Schuyler) and June
with its toothpaste smile, someone stopping to break
off a piece and recite the lines—
also those in French—(Schuyler)—the air filled with a
busload of strangers—
and chalk from the banged erasers, and ice boats,
and the moment I was born, look,
one more day gone, done, it began it ended,slow,
fast,
a sun shone, clouds, I was for a while with others
( Creeley),
then came down on the ground again ( Creeley)
and how I am not afraid, look, my father is dying, we
have to cross
the street, we have to take the shape of the living,
look,
as a queen sits down knowing the chair will be there,
or the general raises his hand and is given the field
glasses,
or you nod through the fogbound prow at all the
suggestions--,
the hills suggesting themselves, the narrowness
suggesting itself,
the mark, your mark as you look forward suggesting
itself,
to whatever is up ahead which turns now to mark
your arrival with a small wind, small but firm, nothing
at your back,
you have not foreseen what lies beyond,
do not let the thought of it in,
there will come a moment when you cannot tell,
there will come a moment when you cannot tell.
