sirach 43:8

i

having walked sixteen miles into the grey abyss of november
across sycamore creek bottomlands, then turning wrong and

finding pockets of the city where streets are not even paved
and where the houses match the streets,

i startled some deer as the night gathered;
i always like it, where else will i

ever be taken for a wolf? leaves upset and blurry kicking,
white flags and a buck in profile, five points melted

into the grainy woods beyond, you know how, no
noises past our little discourse there.

ii

i always thought of you on walks like this
when the shadows used to get long and catch me

like your face still would, if i saw it,
but i will not have that calamity. i told a certain one not once

but many times that i would lie in the middle of richmond road
for you—to demonstrate what, you might well ask—and i would

say it’s all i could do to keep from exploding then and there—
the weight of events would catch such fire, oh,

if i ever saw you in that way. and it still is, probably,
but i think about you less, all by the great manna of being busy.

if i ever saw you again, i would confess my love to the
soil i was buried in, bruising my wrists on the mahogany,

gesticulating. but i am increasing wonderfully in my changing here,
you know, even in a land i hate.

iii

i will admit that when it was really getting dark
after willard avenue; when i had to cross the cemetery

i did feel pangs, the air no longer breathing for a while
as i made steady for aurelius and mt. hope, stifled moonlight

making cobblestones of the leaf litter. suddenly the dead rose
and i was back downtown bawling my eyes out like no one could see,

canned rihanna piping down empty streets like it usually did,
sure before the supreme deity of the universe that i

was the most unfairly killed of all prophets,
the most cruelly beaten down, here in nineveh

where nothing green can thrive. and then a new voice:
but oh, robin, it was three years ago,

oh, oh, oh, look what has been
made to grow here in nineveh.

iv

slain demons flash in the dark like phantom limbs:
oh, i am not used to their absence.

do you remember hitting that deer on penn? how hopeless
in that moment all you felt? or the bullet-pointed

ypsilanti sleet on the day you felt it was all over?
and a hundred-odd mundane evasions of company of people

you might have let in on the squalor of davis avenue? the night,
driving one back home down collins—i think in the first month

of this adventure—boring her and yourself talking about moravians
and deciding you would do best to forget them all? the calm

bitterness of twenty thousand hours walking shoeless
through the rain down from the m.l.k. bridge—no,

you will never forget. but what will we do now
in victory and freedom? oh, robin, oh;

i wish you would see
what has grown in nineveh.

wisdom 7:12

i

it costs so much to understand
just a little of this world,

some part you slipped a paper under
and a glass, a spider on the face of

infinity, for what feels like the price
of life itself. i know i lay awake

for months in agony memorizing
the contents of the cage they prepared

for it, peering gravely into corners
knowing they would ask about

details when the time came
to make my account, provided our

hairy little friend still lived
and the house didn’t burn

and the sky unfallen,
et cetera.

ii

soon i was full of heaviness and
walking in trenches, discerning

narrow ways through kind loam.
i was driven into desert places

by my heaviness and thought my soul lost
on a poor wager; i thought of

callaway and the start i almost made
there, and my grief deepened

until it seemed i could go nowhere
but stay and learn the rocks inside

the dry kloof, but i
was wrong about that.

iii

there is so much to learn in this world
but not much to understand, not much

that’s worth trying to, is what i mean;
in any case, you don’t need to know much

to finish well in this life:

only mostly the love of God
and the faith to take one step

a thousand thousand times.

a comprehensive examination

1. why do you think he is single? to what extent are structural forces to blame or
is it rather a matter of choices? what is he afraid of?
refer to at least three specific
failures in your
response and use ten to fifteen pages for each prompt.

2. provide an interpretation
of the dark period (2014-2015).

how likely do you think it
is to recur?

out of the many myths he told himself
about it all coming back to the car in bethania,
the choice not to lurch lastly at roanoke
not to even say “michigan”:
were any of them any more than lies?
or do you believe he has learned
something?

3. if he had not gone to lansing, what
do you think would have happened to him?

what if he had spent his shallow dream
in williamsburg or charlottesville,
like he thought he would do?

moreover, if he liked the place more
would he live differently?

4. i think this thing is all a real mistake, am i right?

cite his poems after the following format,
simply, by first lines: (why

do you think he is single?
2018).