The Glass Constellation: New and Collected Poems

OPENING POEMS FROM The Redshifting Web

1998

Before Completion

1

I gaze through a telescope at the Orion Nebula,

a blue vapor with a cluster of white stars,

gaze at the globular cluster in Hercules,

needle and pinpoint lights stream into my eyes.

A woman puts a baby in a plastic bag

and places it in a dumpster; someone

parking a car hears it cry and rescues it.

Is this the little o, the earth?

Deer at dusk are munching apple blossoms;

a green snake glides down flowing acequia water.

The night is rich with floating pollen;

in the morning, we break up the soil

to prepare for corn. Fossilized cotton pollen

has been discovered at a site above six thousand feet.

As the character yi, change, is derived

from the skin of a chameleon, we are

living the briefest hues on the skin

of the world. I gaze at the Sombrero Galaxy

between Corvus and Spica: on a night with no moon,

I notice my shadow by starlight.

2

Where does matter end and space begin?

blue jays eating suet;

juggling three crumpled newspaper balls

wrapped with duct tape;

tasseling corn;

the gravitational bending of light;

We’re dying;

stringing a coral necklace;

he drew his equations on butcher paper;

vanishing in sunlight;

sobbing;

she folded five hundred paper cranes and placed them in a basket;

sleeping in his room in a hammock;

they drew a shell to represent zero;

red persimmons;

what is it like to catch up to light?

he threw Before Completion:

six in the third place, nine in the sixth.

3

A wavering line of white-faced ibises,

flying up the Rio Grande, disappears.

A psychic says, "Search a pawnshop

for the missing ring." Loss, a black hole.

You do not intend to commit a series of

blunders, but to discover in one error

an empty cocoon. A weaver dumps

flashlight batteries into a red-dye bath.

A physicist says, "After twenty years,

nothing is as I thought it would be."

You recollect watching a yellow-

and-black-banded caterpillar in a jar

form a chrysalis: in days the chrysalis

lightened and became transparent:

a monarch emerged and flexed its wings.

You are startled to retrieve what you forgot:

it has the crunching sound of river

breakup when air is calm and very clear.

4

Beijing, 1985: a poet describes herding pigs

beside a girl with a glass eye and affirms

the power to dream and transform. Later,

in exile, he axes his wife and hangs himself.

Do the transformations of memory

become the changing lines of divination?

Is the continuum of a moment a red

poppy blooming by a fence, or is it

a woman undergoing radiation treatment

who stretches out on a bed to rest

and senses she is stretching out to die?

At night I listen to your breathing,

guess at the freckles on your arms,

smell your hair at the back of your neck.

Tiger lilies are budding in pots in the patio;

daikon is growing deep in the garden.

I see a bewildered man ask for direction,

and a daikon picker points the way with a daikon.

5

He threw Duration;

sunspots;

what is it like to catch up to light?

a collapsing vertebra;

the folding wings of a blue damselfly;

receiving a fax;

buffeted on a floatplane between islands;

a peregrine falcon making a slow circle with outstretched wings;

he crumpled papers, threw them on the floor,

called it City of Bums;

polar aligning;

inhaling the smell of her hair;

a red handprint on a sandstone wall;

digging up ginseng;

carding wool;

where does matter end and space begin?

6

Mushroom hunting at the ski basin, I spot

a bloodred amanita pushing up under fir,

find a white-gilled Man On Horseback,

notice dirt breaking and carefully unearth

a cluster of gold chanterelles. I stop

and gaze at yellow light in a clearing.

As grief dissolves and the mind begins to clear,

an s twist begins to loosen the z-twisted fiber.

A spider asleep under a geranium leaf

may rest a leg on the radial string of a web,

but cool nights are pushing nasturtiums to bloom.

An eggplant deepens in hue and drops to the ground.

Yellow specks of dust float in the clearing;

in memory, a series of synchronous spaces.

As a cotton fiber burns in an s twist

and unravels the z twist of its existence,

the mind unravels and ravels a wave of light,

persimmons ripening on leafless trees.

The String Diamond

1

An apricot blossom opens to five petals.

You step on a nail, and, even as you wince,

a man closes a mailbox, a cook sears

shredded pork in a wok, a surgeon sews

a woman up but forgets to remove a sponge.

In the waiting room, you stare at a diagram

and sense compression of a nerve where

it passes through the wrist and into the hand.

You are staring at black and white counters

on a crisscrossed board and have no idea

where to begin. A gardener trims chamisa

in a driveway; a roofer mops hot tar;

a plumber asphyxiates in a room with

a faulty gas heater; a mechanic becomes

an irrational number and spirals into himself.

And you wonder what inchoate griefs

are beginning to form? A daykeeper sets

a random handful of seeds and crystals into lots.

2

Pin a mourning cloak to a board and observe

brown in the wings spreading out to a series

of blue circles along a cream-yellow outer band.

A retired oceanographer remembers his father

acted as a double agent during the Japanese occupation,

but the Guomindang general who promised a pardon

was assassinated; his father was later sentenced

as a collaborator to life in prison, where he died.

Drinking snake blood and eating deer antler

is no guarantee the mind will deepen and glow.

You notice three of the four corners of an intersection

are marked by ginkgo, horse chestnut, cluster

of pear trees, and wonder what the significance is.

Is the motion of a red-dye droplet descending

in clear water the ineluctable motion of a life?

The melting point of ice is a point of transparency,

as is a kiss, or a leaf beginning to redden,

or below a thunderhead lines of rain vanishing in air.

3

Deltoid spurge,

red wolf,

ocelot,

green-blossom pearlymussel,

razorback sucker,

wireweed,

blunt-nosed leopard lizard,

mat-forming quillwort,

longspurred mint,

kern mallow,

Schaus swallowtail,

pygmy madtom,

relict trillium,

tan riffleshell,

humpback chub,

large-flowered skullcap,

black lace cactus,

tidewater goby,

slender-horned spineflower,

sentry milk-vetch,

tulotoma snail,

rice rat,

blowout penstemon,

rough pigtoe,

marsh sandwort,

snakeroot,

scrub plum,

bluemask darter,

crested honeycreeper,

rough-leaved loosestrife.

4

In the mind, an emotion dissolves into a hue;

there’s the violet haze when a teen drinks

a pint of paint thinner, the incarnadined

when, by accident, you draw a piece of

Xerox paper across your palm and slit

open your skin, the yellow when you hear

they have dug up a four-thousand-year-old

corpse in the Taklamakan Desert,

the scarlet when you struggle to decipher

a series of glyphs which appear to

represent sunlight dropping to earth

at equinoctial noon, there’s the azure

when the acupuncturist son of a rabbi

extols the virtues of lentils, the brown

when you hear a man iced in the Alps

for four thousand years carried dried

polypores on a string, the green when

ravens cry from the tops of swaying spruces.

5

The first leaves on an apricot, a new moon,

a woman in a wheelchair smoking in a patio,

a CAT scan of a brain: these are the beginnings

of strings. The pattern of black and white

stones never repeats. Each loss is particular:

a gold ginkgo leaf lying on the sidewalk,

the room where a girl sobs. A man returns

to China, invites an old friend to dinner,

and later hears his friend felt he missed

the moment he was asked a favor and was

humiliated; he tells others never to see

this person from America, He’s cunning, ruthless.

The struggle to sense a nuance of emotion

resembles a chrysalis hanging from a twig.

The upstairs bedroom filling with the aroma

of lilies becomes a breathing diamond.

Can a chrysalis pump milkweed toxins into wings?

In the mind, what never repeats? Or repeats endlessly?

6

Dropping circles of gold paper,

before he dies,

onto Piazza San Marco;

pulling a U-turn

and throwing the finger;

a giant puffball

filling the car

with the smell of almonds;

a daykeeper pronounces the day,

Net;

slits a wrist,

writes the characters revolt

in blood on a white T-shirt;

a dead bumblebee

in the greenhouse;

the flaring tail of a comet,

desiccated vineyard,

tsunami;

a ten-dimensional

form of go;

slicing abalone on the counter—

sea urchins

piled in a Styrofoam box;

honeydew seeds

germinating in darkness.

7

A hummingbird alights on a lilac branch

and stills the mind. A million monarchs

may die in a frost? I follow the wave

of blooming in the yard: from iris to

wild rose to dianthus to poppy to lobelia

to hollyhock. You may find a wave in

a black-headed grosbeak singing from a cottonwood

or in listening to a cricket at dusk.

I inhale the smell of your hair and see

the cloud of ink a cuttlefish releases in water.

You may find a wave in a smoked and

flattened pig’s head at a Chengdu market,

or in the diamond pulse of a butterfly.

I may find it pulling yarn out of an indigo vat

for the twentieth time, watching the yarn

turn dark, darker in air. I find it

with my hand along the curve of your waist,

sensing in slow seconds the tilt of the Milky Way.

Kaiseki

1

An aunt has developed carpal tunnel syndrome

from using a pipette. During the Cultural Revolution,

she was tortured with sleep deprivation. Some

of the connections in her memory dissolved

into gaps. My mind has leaps now, she says,

as she reaches for bean threads in a boiling pot.

Her son recollects people lined up to buy

slices of cancerous tripe. "If you boil it,

it’s edible," he says. And a couple who ate

a destroying angel testified it was delicious—

they had not intended to become love suicides.

What are the points of transformation in a life?

You choose three green Qianlong coins and throw

Corners of the Mouth, with no changing lines.

You see red and green seaweed washing onto

smooth black stones along a rocky shoreline,

sense the moment when gravity overtakes light

and the cosmos stops expanding and begins to contract.

2

In the Brazos, he has never found a matsutake

under ponderosa pine, but in the dark

he whiffs it pungent white. Five votive candles

are lined along the fireplace; she has lit

a new candle even though the one burning

holds days of light. The night-blooming cereus

by the studio window is budding from rain.

In his mind, he sees the flyswatter

hanging from a nail on the lintel, a two-eyed

Daruma hanging from the rearview mirror of the car.

He hears the dipping-and-rising pitch of a siren

glide up the street and senses a shift

in starlight, the Horsehead Nebula, and, in the dark,

her eyelashes closing and opening on his skin.

3

He knew by the sound that the arrow was going to miss the target;

pins floating on water;

I saw the collapsing rafters in flames;

the dark side of the moon;

if p then q;

simplicity is to complexity

as a photon is to a hummingbird?

fire turns to what is dry;

when the Chinese woman wore a blond wig,

people grew uneasy;

an egg exploding in a microwave;

morels pushing up through burned ground;

at the cash register,

Siamese fighting fish were stacked in small glass bowls;

she lost all her hair;

digging up truffles;

what is a quantum unit of light?

4

Tokpela: sky: the first world; in her mind,

she has designed an exhibit exemplifying

Hopi time and space. He sees the white sash

with knots and strands hanging from the trastero.

He sees the wild rose by the gate,

red nasturtiums blooming by the kitchen door.

She is pressing the blender button and grinding

cochineal bugs into bits; she is sorting

slides of Anasazi textile fragments on a light board.

He recalls when they let loose a swarm

of ladybugs in the yard. It is light-years

since she wove a white manta on the vertical loom,

light-years since they walked out together

to the tip of Walpi and saw the San Francisco Peaks.

Goldfish swim in the pond in the back garden.

The night-blooming cereus opens five white blossoms

in a single night. He remembers looking

through a telescope at craters, and craters

inside craters on the moon. He recalls

being startled at the thought, gravity precedes light.

5

They searched and searched for a loggerhead shrike;

I can’t believe how you make me come—

she knew he was married

but invited him to the opera;

diving for sea urchins;

the skin of a stone;

You asshole!

the nuclear trigrams were identical;

the wing beats of a crow;

maggots were crawling inside the lactarius cap;

for each species of mushroom,

a particular fly;

a broad-tailed hummingbird

whirred at an orange nasturtium;

Your time has come;

opening the shed with a batten;

p if and only if q;

he put the flyswatter back on the nail.

6

The budding chrysanthemums in the jar have the color

of dried blood. Once, as she lit a new candle,

he asked, What do you pray for? and remembered

her earlobe between his teeth but received a gash

when she replied, Money. He sees the octagonal

mirror at a right angle to the fuse box, sees

the circular mirror nailed into the bark of the elm

at the front gate and wonders why the obsession

with feng shui. He recalls the photograph of a weaver

at a vertical loom kneeling at an unfinished

Two Grey Hills and wonders, is she weaving or unweaving?

The candlelight flickers at the bottom of the jar.

He sees back to the millisecond the cosmos was pure energy

and chooses to light a new candle in her absence.

7

I plunge enoki mushrooms into simmering broth

and dip them in wasabi, see a woman remove

a red-hot bowl from a kiln and smother it in sawdust.

I see a right-hand petroglyph with concentric

circles inside the palm, and feel I am running

a scrap of metal lath across a drying coat of cement.

I eat sea urchin roe and see an orange starfish

clinging below the swaying waterline to a rock.

I am opening my hands to a man who waves

an eagle feather over them, feel the stretch

and stretch of a ray of starlight. This

black raku bowl with a lead-and-stone glaze

has the imprint of tongs. I dip raw blowfish

into simmering sake on a brazier, see a lover

who combs her hair and is unaware she is humming.

I see a girl crunching on chips at the Laundromat,

sense the bobbing red head of a Mexican finch.

Isn’t this the most mysterious of all possible worlds?

8

A heated stone on a white bed of salt—

sleeping on a subway grate—

a thistle growing in a wash—

sap oozing out the trunk of a plum—

yellow and red roses hanging upside down under a skylight—

fish carcasses at the end of a spit—

two right hands on a brush drawing a dot then the character, water—

an ostrich egg—

a coyote trotting across the street in broad daylight—

sharpening a non-photo blue pencil—

the scar at a left wrist—

a wet sycamore leaf on the sidewalk—

lighting a kerosene lamp on a float house—

kaiseki: breast stones: a Zen meal—

setting a yarrow stalk aside to represent the infinite—

9

They threw Pushing Upward—

the pearl on a gold thread dangling at her throat—

a rice bowl with a splashed white slip—

biting the back of her neck—

as a galaxy acts as a gravitational lens and bends light—

stirring matcha to a froth with a bamboo whisk—

brushing her hair across his body—

noticing a crack

has been repaired with gold lacquer—

Comet Hyakutake’s tail flaring upward in the April sky—

orange and pink entwined bougainvilleas blooming in a pot—

Oh god, oh my god, she whispered and began to glow—

yellow tulips opening into daylight—

staring at a black dot on the brown iris of her right eye—

water flows to what is wet.

Apache Plume

1 The Beginning Web

Blue flax blossoming near the greenhouse

is a luminous spot, as is a point south

of the Barrancas where two rivers join.

By the cattail pond, you hear dogs

killing a raccoon. In mind, these spots

breathe and glow. In the bath I pour

water over your shoulder, notice the spot

where a wild leaf has grazed your skin.

I see the sun drop below the San Andres

Mountains, white dunes in starlight;

in the breathing chiaroscuro, I glimpse

red-winged blackbirds nesting in the cattails,

see a cow pushing at the wobbly point

in a fence. In this beginning web of light,

I feel the loops and whorls of your fingertips,

hear free-tailed bats swirling out into the dark.

2 Reductions and Enlargements

A Chippewa designer dies from pancreatic cancer

and leaves behind tracing paper, X-Acto knives,

rubber cement, non-photo blue pencils,

a circular instrument that calculates reductions

and enlargements. A child enters a house and finds

a dead man whose face has been eaten by dogs.

Who is measuring the pull of the moon in a teacup?

In a thousand years, a man may find barrels

of radioactive waste in a salt bed and be unable

to read the warnings. Sand is accumulating

at the bottom of an hourglass, and anything—

scissors, green wind chime, pencil shavings,

eraser smudge, blooming orchid under skylight—

may be a radial point into light. When a carp

flaps its tail and sends ripples across the surface

of a pond, my mind steadies into a glow. Look

at a line that goes into water, watch the wake,

see the string pulse and stretch into curved light.

3 The Names of a Bird

You find a downy woodpecker on the bedroom floor.

I am startled and listen in the snowy dark

to deer approach a house and strip yew leaves.

In pots, agapanthuses are opening umbels

of violet flowers. Neither driven by hunger

nor flowering in the moment, what drives an oologist

to distinguish finch eggs from wren or sparrow?

What drives a physicist to insist the word

sokol means falcon in Hungarian? If you know

the names of a bird in ten languages, do you know

any more about the bird? Driving past an ostrich farm,

I recollect how you folded a desert willow blossom

into a notebook; I recollect rolling down

a white dune at dusk, pulling a green jade disk

on a thread at your throat into my mouth.

I know what it is to touch the mole between your breasts.

4 The Architecture of Silence

The gate was unlocked. We drove to the road’s end; grapefruit lay on the ground not far from a white house whose window caught a glare. December 29, four p.m. At first we couldn’t find the trail but walked ahead and crossed a river full of black boulders. Days earlier, we had looked down into the valley from a kukui grove. There was speckled bark, slanting rain, horses in a field, drenching rain. We had been walking back from the ocean where we moved from rock to rock and saw black crabs scuttling along the tide line. We looked into the water, saw sea cucumbers on rocks. On the way back, white lepiotas among grass and a small white puffball. I sliced open the puffball, but it was