Philip Levine
The End Of Your Life
First light. This misted field is the world, that man slipping the greased bolt Back and forth, that man tunneled with blood the dark smudges of whose eyes Call for sleep, calls for quiet,
Smoke
Can you imagine the air filled with smoke? It was. The city was vanishing before noon Or was it earlier than that? I can’t say because The light came from nowhere and went nowhere.
The Rat Of Faith
A blue jay poses on a stake Meant to support an apple tree Newly planted. A strong wind On this clear cold morning Barely ruffles his tail feathers. When he turns his attention Toward
Fist
Iron growing in the dark, It dreams all night long And will not work. A flower That hates God, a child Tearing at itself, this one Closes on nothing. Friday, late, Detroit Transmission. If
Call It Music
Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song In my own breath. I’m alone here In Brooklyn Heights, late morning, the sky Above the St. George Hotel clear, clear For New York, that
In A Light Time
The alder shudders in the April winds Off the moon. No one is awake and yet Sunlight streams across The hundred still beds Of the public wards For children. At ten Do we truly
Night Words
after Juan Ramon A child wakens in a cold apartment. The windows are frosted. Outside he hears Words rising from the streets, words he cannot Understand, and then the semis gear down For the
Night Thoughts Over A Sick Child
Numb, stiff, broken by no sleep, I keep night watch. Looking for Signs to quiet fear, I creep Closer to his bed and hear His breath come and go, holding My own as if
Green Thumb
Shake out my pockets! Harken to the call Of that calm voice that makes no sound at all! Take of me all you can; my average weight May make amends for this, my low
In The New Sun
Filaments of light Slant like windswept rain. The orange seller hawks Into the sky, a man with a hat Stops below my window And shakes his tassels. Awake In Tetuan, the room filling With
Where We Live Now
1 We live here because the houses Are clean, the lawns run Right to the street And the streets run away. No one walks here. No one wakens at night or dies. The cars
Everything
Lately the wind burns The last leaves and evening Comes too late to be Of use, lately I learned That the year has turned Its face to winter And nothing I say or do
Gangrene
Vous êtes sorti sain et sauf des basses Calomnies, vous avey conquis les coeurs. Zola, J’accuse One was kicked in the stomach Until he vomited, then made to put back Into his mouth what
The Simple Truth
I bought a dollar and a half’s worth of small red potatoes, Took them home, boiled them in their jackets And ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt. Then I walked
An Ending
Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids Home in a bare house, bundled up And listening to rock music Pirated from England. My wife Waiting for me in a bar, alone For an