Levis Larry - The darkening trapeze: last poems

last poems Edited and with an Afterword by David St.

John Graywolf Press Copyright 2016 by the Estate of Larry Levis Afterword copyright 2016 by David St. John Photo of Larry Levis George Janecek. Used with permission. This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and through a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota. Significant support has also been provided by Target, the McKnight Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. Published by Graywolf Press 250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600 Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401 All rights reserved. www.graywolfpress.org Published in the United States of America ISBN 978-1-55597-727-6 Ebook ISBN 978-1-55597-920-1 2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1 First Graywolf Printing, 2016 Library of Congress Control Number: 2015952175 Cover design: Jeenee Lee Design Cover art: Francis Bacon, Triptych , 1970. www.graywolfpress.org Published in the United States of America ISBN 978-1-55597-727-6 Ebook ISBN 978-1-55597-920-1 2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1 First Graywolf Printing, 2016 Library of Congress Control Number: 2015952175 Cover design: Jeenee Lee Design Cover art: Francis Bacon, Triptych , 1970.

Oil on canvas. National Gallery of Australia, Canberra. Purchased 1973. The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS, London / ARS, NY 2015.

In memory of Philip Levine

I told no one, but the snows came, anyway. They werent even serious about it, at first. Then, they seemed to say, if nothing happened, Snow could say that, & almost perfectly. The village slept in the gunmetal of its evening. And there, through a thin dress once, I touched A body so alive & eager I thought it must be Someone elses soul. And though I was mistaken, And though we parted, & the roads kept thawing between snows In the first spring sun, & it was all, like spring, Irrevocable, irony has made me thinner.

Someday, weeks From now, I will wake alone. My fate, I will think, Will be to have no fate. I will feel suddenly hungry. The morning will be bright, & wrong.

for Bruce & Marsha Smoke, laughter, & a bar whose solemn oak Has outlasted worse times than my own In the ballroom of their last hotel, whole families Of Basques had come again to dance, slowly, Some austere polka nobody but Basques Had ever seen, or learned. Once a year I come back to this place, embrace friends, And drink to what got lost in bad translation: The town we tried to change, changed anyway.

The street we blocked off on a warm day In 1970 is lined with cute Boutiques, & that girl, once queen Of her high-school prom, who two years later Left to harvest sugarcane in Cuba, Works late tonight, taking inventory: So many belts, so many sandals sold. Then jogging five miles home before she sleeps. We drank Fundador late, & I went out Alone in the cold New Year to find No one on the street, no trains Pausing in their own breath in the depot Behind the hotel, no soldier, & no lovers Either. What I heard & saw were a hundred Sparrows gathering in one small tree, Their throats full of some ridiculous Joy or misery at being sparrows, winged, Striped, & handicapped for life. I thought That coming back here always showed me just How much this place has changed; but no. The only Real change is me.

Now, when I sit Across from two friends at a table, I am Whatevers distant, snow beginning to fall On the plains; a thiefs fire. Someday I wont Be home to anyone. Some days, it takes Two hours of careful talk before Im me Again. I miss that talk, although I think Im right to be alone, in the gift of my One life, listening to songs not made For me, invented by no one I know, for luck, For a winter night, for two friends who, Some nights, some days, gave me everything.

This life & no other. The flesh so innocent it walks along The road, believing it, & ceases to be ours.

Were fate carrying a blown-out bicycle tire in one hand, Flesh that has stepped out of its flesh, Always ahead of ourselves, leaving the body behind us on the road. Zampan, what happens next? The clown is dead. You still break chains across your chest though your hearts not in it, Your audience is just two kids, & already there is Snow in little crusted ridges, snow glazing cart tracks & furrows Where you rest. And then what happens? One day you get an earache. One day you cant breathe. You notice the old nurse wears a girdle as she bends over you, You remember the smell of Spanish rice from childhood, An orphanage with scuffed linoleum on its floors.

You sit up suddenly, without knowing you have. Your eyes are wide. You are stepping out of the flesh, Because it now belongs to Zampan, the Great. Zampan, I cant do all the talking for you. I cant go with you Anymore. What happens next? Always what happens next, & then what happens after that.

Its like you think were in a book for children. What happens next? What does it look like is going to happen? Its a carnival. It happens on the outskirts of a city made of light & distance. And well, its just my own opinion, but I think Its a pretty poor excuse for a carnival, torn tents, everything Worn out. But I guess it has to go on anyhow.