Margaret Randall

I wanted to go into the sun where it was warm and could be warm inside too, your face is the same and not. You told me to the music of the gaunt men playing ball and the women walking slowly and the monkey hanging from the old tree You told me You were born with crooked legs sleeping in braces and always straight, that later you couldn't sleep any other way, the blood the pain and no climax and no climax, what do you call it you said never reaching orgasm.

I thought of the blame of your parents which is the blame of society which is the blame of us all, of me, and I thought of the no-blame. I remembered the letter

from a friend who said, as the paper reached me thismorning "You know I feel no fault in you... & no fault in myself, No Blame as the I Ching says" and you said

I still cry when I think of the shock treatments it was terrible, the pain, the same pain that makes us love one another even before we know each other here. Who was to blame for those shock treatments I thought on the warm grass.

Your pain points in new directions like your wrist watch you hung on that woman's shoulder coming out of the public john, and the blame to be held in our hands one by one.

In his dream he was at the end of a long hall. Was it a dark hall? At the other end of the hall he saw the nude figure of his father bent over an object he could not define moving up and down. He began to walk down the hall, walk towards his father. As he came closer he saw his father was pumping up and down up and down working with a bicycle pump blowing something up. Arriving he saw his father was pumping a goomey women she got bigger and bigger and his father kept pumping up and down and the woman filling with air got bigger and bigger and was his mother. As he watched his father kept pumping and the woman's legs his mother's legs filling with air began to rise and separate and suddenly from between her legs the pumping air filled the head of a child coming out from between her legs a child emerged. Was it his brother?

When the dream was over after he had told the dream he realized the child's head was his.

While you put your hands, that, Our surface Crossing a bridge or The other way around the back way or head on, coming to it To discover the rules Written into the distance while your hands The house, filling with smoke, the angles used To talk straight, on, At last be able To name. Your hands naming the thrust and space around it, that, I would bring you bringing me Close upon it, so we will look, go through Hands and smoke Filling the house.