I am reading
  “ ‘Huh! promising me a hundred children.’ Then she
waits for the God to show what he can do, and Siva (but   
it can’t be Siva) is touched, and forced by her faith,
resuscitates the husband.”
                         And as I am reading
                         I hear a cry:    Oooooooo!
                         O God, the heart fails
                         I know it
                         it can happen next door
                         (see Musée des Beaux Arts)
                         while you are reading
  “What I am telling you here is the story according to
the expression of the group. But the Hindus do not know
how to paint, still less how to carve natural expressions.
That is why I am inclined to think that the woman’s
attitude should be a little more respectful.”
                        What can I do
                        but lunge from bed
                                             the telephone…
                        no the moments spent
                        dialing may be her last
                        the kiss of life
                        how does it go?
                        Once I had to try it
                        on a boy he
                        was not dying he was
                        only a cub scout
                        but he could die
                        and I could if
                        I would
                        save him if
                        I was not timid
                        and I was
                        how does it go?
                        splayed out
                        in the bathroom she
                        was stepping
                        from the shower she
                        had no history
                        her heart was free
                        of history
                        I would stay with her
                        hammer the kiss of life
                        onto her
                        hold a mirror
                        over her lips
                                          Oooooooooo!
                        She cries again
                        I am slow closing
                        the book.
“The Hindu does not rush. He is never elliptic.
He does not stand out from the group. He is the exact
opposite of the climax. He never bowls you over. In
the 125,000 verses of the Ramayanas, in the 250,000 of the
Mahabharata there is not a flash.”
                     I saw her once only
                     she was not
                     attractive
                     no one would call her
                     beautiful
                     I hear her music at night
                     Haydn
                     she plays when she is alone
                     as she is most nights
                     a working woman
                     up at seven
                     I hear the alarm
                     I hear her hum
                     as the coffee perks
                     as the bath runs
                     as the radio
                     softly conveys the news
                     that has occurred 
                     in her sleep
                     and now she is going.
                     she has been called
                     as my grandmother would say
                     she is crossing over
                     as the spiritualists say
                                               Oooooooooo!
                        a third time she cries
                        it must be terrible
                        it did not show mercy
                        with swiftness
                        I have heard that cry
                        I “respond” to that cry
                        as if it were caught
                        in my throat
                                           Oooooooooo yes
                        she says Oooooooooo yes
                        I am in the doorway
                        with one foot raised
                        the foot stays raised
                        through the next cry
                        and the next cry
                        the foot is becoming
                        aware of something
                        the awareness moves
                        up through the ankle
                        into the calves
                        the knees and into the thighs
                        the thighs say
                        this neighbor of mine
                        is not dying
                        no she is not dying
                        the foot lowers itself
                        to the ground
                        one foot follows the other
                        back into the bedroom
                       the hands pick up
                       the book
                       the eyes are shy now
                       they feel foolish
                       but they must read
                       to the end.

                       Someone must think
                       she is beautiful.