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Larry Levis - The Future Of HandsLarry Levis - The Future Of Hands
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All winter The trees held up their silent hives As if they mattered. But on one main street of bars and lights, I watched a woman who had begged for days Throw all the coins back, insulted, Into the crowd, And then each cheap stone on her necklace, As if they were confetti At a bitter wedding, And then her stained blouse. I smiled, then, at her dignity. But when the night came With only its usual stars to show, She was applauded and spat on, Or those passing stepped around her, Avoiding her body As if it had become private, or pure. When the police arrived, Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen To strip, Her face was a brown jewel, And I knew the hands Of the police would have to close now, On this body abandoned to wind, Just as her hands closed, finally, On wind that would have nothing To do with her, And never had. * I know that wind Had nothing to do with longing. I have seen that, even in the eyes Of girls across a lunch counter-- A desire to be anywhere that wasn`t Texas, and waiting on tables-- Their eyes making a pact With the standing, staring wheat About to be turned back into the black soil That spreads everywhere when no one is watching. And writing this, I stare at my hands, Which are the chroniclers of my death, Which pull me into this paper Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets, And the woman gone. After two hours of work, I do not know if there ever was a woman. I watch the flies buzz at the sill. * Or, if I sleep, I must choose between two dreams. In one of them, my hands move calmly Over a woman`s waist, or lift In speech the way birds rise or settle Over a marsh, over nesting places. In the other dream, There are no nesting places, The birds are white, and scavenging. They lift negligently over the town in wind, Like paper, like the death of paper. They dip and rise As if there had never been a heaven. Beneath them, it is summer. It is the same town I was born in. And in its one bar The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico, The hair of brides mixed With the hair of the dead, Argues all day over the price.
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