The Village on Horseback. Jesse Ball

       1

       Bestiary nos. 1–17

      The first dream in which I had the sensation of my true situation while asleep occurs in the 207th night; the second in the 214th.

      Hervey de Saint-Denys, 1867

It Was a Later Century

      I woke in the midst of a deep sleep,

      some sleep such as comes over

      the entirety of the world, that lasts

      an infinite and indefinite period;

      that, when finished, is scarcely marked

      by those who slept. Out in the world

      things were quiet. I went to the house

      of the girl I love. She was asleep.

      I dressed her, and took her with me

      over my shoulder. By the river I picked

      cornflowers. It was a glorious day.

      From a great distance I saw a picnic,

      a party of revelers, a dog. But so far,

      would we ever reach them?

      My girl did not answer, but looked

      lovely I may tell you, in blue cotton.

      I began to cross the plain.

      If the day stays still we may

      yet reach the other side,

      to picnic there in ten years’ time.

Arravelli’s “View of Loum,” 1542.

      There are three walking by the small river,

      dividing the world’s belongings

      into three. A hatted man in a road-stained cloak.

      To the left, a miller bent upon a stick, who seems,

      though crippled, to ask no help of his daughter,

      she who wanders there

      in the composition, the daylight rolled up

      like a map against her scarlet hair.

      They have been talking some time it seems

      without passing beyond that row of hills

      the young traveler would have crossed to come

      to this crisis, to this dwelling place.

      And yes, there is a mill, some four brushstrokes

      delicately upon a distant withered lawn. Economy

      constitutes this life: the daughter has but one

      dress, that she wears; she has but one suitor,

      soon to pass away; but one father, hateful,

      gathering the plurals of sadness to himself;

      one sadness, shared like bread; one world, beyond,

      evoked once by the single traveler who has seen her

      stark against foreshortened youth. For they grow old,

      these wild daughters, bound to fathers

      in grim lands. In them grief is a yellow tree, encircled

      by a fence of bird-like angels. No shout will cause

      this flock to rise to air. And here the light

      is never strong enough for the face upon waking,

      though it pools where the animals sleep,

      and comes radiant at night through unreachable

      fields, through windows which, seen with closed eyes,

      confirm all dread—elsewhere there is a dance

      that many have joined. She winces, and her one hand

      is joined by the other, as if it were the painter himself, who,

      painting an arm to hold the arm which looked

      so hard to bear, had given himself away.

      He was this traveler, Arravelli, who lied and yet did not lie, a young man who said he would return.

The Privileged Girl Speaks

      Whatever you do by the margin,

      don’t touch the tree line. It’s poisonous.

      Grandfather planted it sixty years ago

      to keep things out. He’s the only one

      it cares for. You should see

      the old man take a walk. He goes along

      the forest edge, whistling, “St. Pierre is Home”

      and it opens like a door

      into some other wooden room.

Bestiary 1

      It was a gray sun that stood at the door that day

      and asked me for some water. Deny the sun

      a cup of water? I could not.

      And let me tell you something else. If it had asked

      for a bed I’d have given it a bed. If it had asked

      for a roasted calf, I’d have given it a roasted calf.

      Soon after it left, I felt empty. I went

      back to my needlepoint—three yellow bees

      trying to escape from the Archangel Gabriel.

      They’d stung him rather badly

      on his hands and on the loose and careless

      portions of his wings.

A Set Piece

      to be told at gatherings

      The resignation of the sheriff left nothing to be done. The populace of that tiny hamlet poured out into the cramped streets, half-dressed and quarrelsome. Shops were broken into. Women were vigorously affronted. Men too were affronted, with equal vigor and panache. Many living near the municipal zoo were beaten by a crowd of contrary children. I taught everyone a hymn I had written, complete with musical accompaniment. It went:

      Kill us if you like,

      but you won’t like Hell

      when you do (when you do)

      come to (come to)

      in the heat (in the hot)

      in the hot (in the heat)

      in the goddamn fire of the Lord.

      I pretend now to have made it up, but actually an old woman sang it to me when I menaced her husband with my little knife. I wanted their