The Spirit Says, You Are Nothing - Larry Levis
Because you haven’t praised anything in months, You walk down to the river and study one ripple Above a dead tree Until it is almost dark enough For the moon to whiten it, But it does not, And so you put your hand out, Palm open, And then you feel, or you begin to feel, A thin line of ants hesitate Before running over it, And you think how The thread of worry running through a human voice Halts when a syllable freezes, then goes on, Alone. You remember Overhearing two voices speak softly In a motel room. Outside, it was 1975, And cars sighed past weeds, and fields. You think now they were only A man and a woman consoling each other Because they had both Lived out their lives, and there was no point Anymore worth arguing, even if once There was something, no money, or a daughter Staying out all night even on the blackest night Of summer, and coming home Whitened and final as snow in the back seat Of a convertible – The car abandoned, by now, to the sky, and the sun – But no, they Were just consoling each other For being who they were, And because they could not change, Not now, into Anything else, And because one day one of them will simply look over To see if the water on the stove Is boiling, and if it is clear, finally, Of the gray, shifting sky it had reflected A moment ago, And then he, or she, will be alone – Though the sun might move to illuminate A spiked clematis on the windowsill, Which will be too revealing. And whoever is left Will begin to know what it is like To take one step slowly backward; To be without a voice to sort the mind As it begins, now, to flare like the horns Of a marching band coming up the street under The elms; To feel a slight wind stirring the hair at the back Of the neck… To stand there. ***************************************** By now you are lying so still You think you can rise up, as I can, Without a body, And go unseen over the still heads of grasses, And enter the house Where your wife will not look up from the letter She is writing, And your son goes on sleeping – A thimble of light spilling into the darkness. But you do not move. And this Is about stillness, now: How you remember strolling alone, at seventeen, Through the dusk of each street, How you liked the wind reddening the face Of a drunk, who, In the last days of his alcohol, reeled And stared back at you, And held your gaze. How all you remember of New York is That man, Who would not have read this poem, Or any poem, And who once dreamed That a speck of white paint on a subway platform Would outlast Everyone he knew. ***************************************** But you were young, and you had Plenty of time: Going west, You slept on the train and did not smile. Under you the plains widened, and turned silver. You slept with your mouth open. You were nothing, You were snow falling through the ribs Of the dead. You were all I had.