The Milk Hours. John James

the limp arms of her mother. The suckling sound as I crashed

      into sleep. My daughter, my father—his son. The wet grass

      dew-speckled above him. His face grows vague and then vaguer.

      From our porch I watch snow fall on bare firs. Why does it

      matter now—what gun, what type. Bluesmoke rises. The chopped

      copses glisten. Snowmelt smoothes the stone cuts of his name.

      §

History (n.)

      I didn’t make these verses because I wanted to rival that fellow, or his poems,

       in artistry—I knew that wouldn’t be easy—but to test what certain dreams

       of mine might be saying and to acquit myself of any impiety, just in case they

      might be repeatedly commanding me to make this music.

      —Plato, Phaedo

      Viewed from space, the Chilean volcano blooms.

      I cannot see it. It’s a problem of scale. History—the branch

      of knowledge dealing with past events; a continuous,

      systematic narrative of; aggregate deeds; acts, ideas, events

      that will shape the course of the future; immediate

      but significant happenings; finished, done with—“he’s history.”

      —

      Calbuco: men shoveling ash from the street.

      Third time in a week. And counting.

      Infinite antithesis. Eleven

      miles of ash in the air. What to call it—

      just “ash.” They flee to Ensenada.

      —

       The power of motives does not proceed directly from the will—

      a changed form of knowledge. Wind pushing

      clouds toward Argentina. Knowledge is merely involved.

      Ash falls, it is falling, it has fallen. Will fall. Already flights

      cancelled in Buenos Aires. I want to call it “snow”—

      what settles on the luma trees, their fruit black, purplish black,

      soot-speckled, hermaphroditic—if this book is unintelligible

      and hard on the ears—the oblong ovals of its leaves.

      Amos, fragrant. Family name Myrtus. The wood is extremely hard.

      —

      Ash falling on the concrete, falling on cars, ash

      on the windshields, windows, yards. They have lost

       all sense of direction. They might as well be deep

       in a forest or down in a well. They do not comprehend

      the fundamental principles. They have nothing in their heads.

      —

       The dream kept

       urging me on to do

       what I was doing—

       to make music—

      since philosophy,

       in my view, is

      the greatest music.

      —

      History—from the Greek historía, learning

      or knowing by inquiry. Historein (v.) to ask.

      The asking is not idle. From the French

      histoire, story. Hístor (Gk.) one who sees.

      It is just a matter of what we are looking for.

       Metamorphoses

      what was it this

      morning : you said

      redgrass glistens

      in surf : the pine

      board fence collapsed

      along the line : after

      the storm a kestrel

      in headwind : sand

      accumulates on your

      feet : puckered seal

      skin : the salt-washed

      flesh : wreckage towing

      upshore : when the

      gulls came out I saw

      them circling in air :

      saw them pecking

      seals’ eyes from

      torn skin : a boy

      downstrand rolling

      in dunes : I could see

      the stomach’s red

      wall : the small hairs

      on its flippers : blubber

      wrenched by shark

      bite from the belly’s

      swell : later seen

      from a dune : black

      water : fish spit

      pooling : mouth open

      enough to see teeth

      trailing in sand : his lips

      limp : there in

      the storm’s wake

      I wanted something

      to say : the ocean

      scraped his insides clean

       April, Andromeda

      I am in this world, not self, not seed, not stamen-dusted

      pistil flicking in the wind—the eye sees past its limitations.

      Crushed petals in the dirt, I’m courting a horse with an apple,

      watching its white tail swish along the fence. Somewhere,

      the galaxy spins. I smile at the cloudless sky.

      —

      Continuum of frequencies, Ptolemy’s

      Almagest, the star charts called it Little Cloud—

      chained constellations in The Book

      of Fixed Stars. Nova for new, cut fish

      for never. A heart held back for the knife.

      —

       The opening of large

       tracts by the icecutters

       cutters commonly causes

       a pond to break

       up earlier; for the water

       agitated by the wind

       even in cold weather

       wears away

      the