LARRY LEVIS
Elegy with a Thimbleful of Water in the Cage
(reprinted by permission of University of Pittsburgh
Press)
It's a list of what I cannot touch:
Some dandelions & black eyed susans growing back,
like innocence
Itself, with its thoughtless style,
Over an abandoned labor camp south of Piedra;
And the oldest trees, in that part of Paris with
a name I forget,
Propped up with sticks to keep their limbs from cracking,
And beneath such quiet, a woman with a cane,
And knowing, if I came back, I could not find them
again;
And a cat I remember who slept on the burnished mahogany
In the scooped out beveled place on the counter below
The iron grillwork, the way you had to pass your
letter over him
As he slept through those warm afternoons
In New Hampshire, the gray fur stirring a little
as he inhaled;
The small rural post office growing smaller, then
lost, tucked
Into the shoreline of the lake when I looked back;
Country music from a lone radio in an orchard there.
The first frost already on the ground.
~
And those who slipped out of their names, as if called
Out of them, as if they had been waiting
To be called:
Stavros lecturing from his bequeathed chair at the
Cafe Midi,
In the old Tower Theatre District, his unending solo
Above the traffic on Olive, asking if we knew what
happened
To the Sibyl at Cumae after Ovid had told her story,
After Petronius had swept the grains of
sand from it, how,
Granted eternal life, she had forgotten to ask for
youth, & so,
As she kept aging, as her body shrank within itself
And the centuries passed, she finally
Became so tiny they had to put her into a jar, at
which point
Petronious lost track of her, lost interest in her,
And at which point she began to suffocate
In the jar, suffocate without being able to die,
until, finally,
A Phoenician sailor slipped the gray piece of pottery—
Its hue like an overcast sky & revealing even
less—
Into his pocket, & sold it on the docks at Piraeus
to a shop owner
Who, hearing her gasp, placed her in a bird cage
On a side street just off Onmonios Square, not to
possess her,
But to protect her from pedestrians, & the boys
of Athens rattled
The bars of the cage with sticks as they ran past yelling,
"Sibyl, Sibyl, what do you want?"—each
generation having to
Listen more closely than the one before it to hear
The faintest whispered rasp from the small bitter
seed
Of her tongue as she answered them with the same
Remark passing through time, "I want to die!" As
time passed & she
Gradually grew invisible, the boys had to press
Their ears against the cage to hear her,
And then one day the voice became too faint, no one
could hear it,
And after that they stopped telling
The story. And then it wasn't a story, it was only
an empty cage
That hung outside a shop among the increasing
Noise of traffic, &, from the Square itself,
blaring from loudspeakers,
The shattered glass & bread of political speeches
That went on half the night, & the intermittent
music of strip shows
In summer when the doors of the bars were left open,
And then, Stavros said, the sun shone straight through
the cage.
You could see there was nothing inside it, he said,
unless you noticed
How one of the little perches swung back & forth, almost
Imperceptibly there, though the street was hot, windless;
or unless
You thought you saw a trace of something flicker across
The small mirror above the thimbleful of water, which
of course
Shouldn't have been there, which should have evaporated
Like the voice that went on whispering ceaselessly
its dry rage
Without listeners. He said that even if anyone heard
it,
They could not have recognized the dialect
As anything human.
He would lie awake, the only boy in Athens who
Still heard it repeating its wish to die, & he
was not surprised
He said, when the streets, the bars & strip shows,
Began to fill with German officers, or when the loudspeakers
And the small platform in the Square were, one day,
Shattered into a thousand pieces.
As the years passed, as even the sunlight began to
seem
As if it was listening to him outside the windows
Of the Midi, he began to lose interest in stories, & to
speak
Only in abstractions, to speak only of theories,
Never of things.
Then he began to come in less frequently, & when
he did,
He no longer spoke at all. And so,
Along the boulevards in winter the bare limbs of
the trees
One passed in the city became again
Only the bare limbs of trees, no girl stepped into
them
To tell us of their stillness. We would hear
Rumors of Stavros following the gypsy pentacostalists
into
Their tents, accounts of him speaking in tongues;
Glossalalia, he once said, which was all speech, & none.
In a way, it didn't matter anymore. Something in
time was fading—
And though girls still came to the cafe to flirt or argue politics
Or buy drugs from the two ancient boys expressionless
as lizards
Now as they bent above a chessboard—
By summer the city parks had grown dangerous.
No one went there anymore to drink wine, dance, & listen
To metal amplified until it seemed, as it had
Seemed once, the bitter, cleansing angel released
at last from what
Fettered it inside us. And maybe there
Wasn't any angel after all. The times had changed.
It became
Difficult to tell for sure. And anyway,
There was a law against it now, a law against gathering
at night
In the parks was actually all that the law
Said was forbidden for us to do, but it came to the
same thing.
It meant you were no longer permitted to know,
Or to decide for yourself,
Whether there was an angel inside you, or whether
there wasn't.
~
Poverty is what happens at the end of any story,
including this one,
When there are too many stories.
When you can believe in all of them, & so believe
in none;
When one condition is as good as any other.
The swirl of wood grain in the desk, is it the face
of an angel, or
The photograph of a girl, the only widow in her high school,
After she has decided to turn herself
Into a tree? (It was a rainy afternoon, & her
van skidded at sixty;
For a split second the trunk of an oak had never seemed
So solemn as it did then, widening before her.)
Or is it Misfortune itself, or the little grimace
the woman
Makes with her mouth above the cane,
There, then not there, then there again?
Or is the place where all the comparisons, the little
comforts
Like the cane she's leaning on, give way beneath us?
~
What do you do when nothing calls you anymore?
When you turn & there is only the light filling the empty window?
When the angel fasting inside you has grown so thin
it flies
Out of you a last time without your
Knowing it, & the water dries up in its thimble, & the
one swing
In the cage comes to rest after its almost imperceptible,
Almost endless, swaying?
~
I'm going to stare at the whorled grain of wood in
this desk
I'm bent over until it's infinite,
I'm going to make it talk, I'm going to make it
Confess everything.
I was about to ask you if you were cold, if you wanted
a sweater, Because . . .
well, as Stavros would say
Before he began one of those
Stories that seemed endless, the sun pressing against
The windows of the cafe & glinting off the stalled traffic
Just beyond them, this could take a while;
____
I pass the letter I wrote to you over the sleeping cat & beyond
the
iron grillwork, into the irretrievable. ![](../../images/bug_print.gif)
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