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The last thing my father did for me Was map a way: he died, & so Made death possible. If he could do it, I Will also, someday, be so honored. Once, At night, I walked through the lit streets Of New York, from the Gramercy Park Hotel Up Lexington & at that hour, alone, I stopped hearing traffic, voices, the racket Of spring wind lifting a newspaper high Above the lights. The streets wet, And shining. No sounds. Once, When I saw my son be born, I thought How loud this world must be to him, how final. That night, out of respect for someone missing, I stopped listening to it. Out of respect for someone missing, I have to say This isn't the whole story. The fact is, I was still in love. My father died, & I was still in love. I know It's in bad taste to say it quite this way. Tell me, How would you say it? The story goes: wanting to be alone & wanting The easy loneliness of travelers, I said good-bye in an airport & flew west. It happened otherwise. And where I'd held her close to me, My skin felt raw, & flayed. Descending, I looked down at the light lacquering fields Of pale vines, & small towns, each With a water tower; then the shadows of wings; Then nothing. My only advice is not to go away. Or, go away. Most Of my decisions have been wrong. When I wake, I lift cold water To my face. I close my eyes. A body wishes to be held, & held, & what Can you do about that? Because there are faces I might never see again, There are two things I want to remember About light, & what it does to us. Her bright, green eyes at an airport--how they widened As if in disbelief; And my father opening the gate: a lit, & silent City. - In The City Of Light, Larry Levis |
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