(no subject)
Philip Levine
Renaming the Kings
River of green stone,
in August '62 I stuck my head in
your lap one mile south of Piedra
where you fall suddenly away
from the highway. 107
in the valley and me
going dizzy, stopped the bike
and stumbled down
over the flat, patient stone, leaned out,
and then you in my eyes,
green tatters of memory, glimpses
of my own blood flashing
like fish, the grasses
dancing calmly, one silver point
like the charmed eye of an eel.
Five hours later I wakened
with the first darkness flowing
from the river bottom
through me to stone, to
the yellow land grasses and storming
the lower branches of the eucalyptus.
I could feel the water
draining from my blood and the stone
going out--the twin bushes of the lungs
held themselves seriously
like people about to take fire,
and when the first minnows startled
I rose into the sky. We
gathered every last tendril
of blue into our breath.
I named the stone John
after my mysterious second born.
High in the banks, slashed with silver,
riding the jagged blade of heaven
down to earth, the river shouts its name.
(from They Feed They Lion, Atheneum Press, 1972)
Renaming the Kings
River of green stone,
in August '62 I stuck my head in
your lap one mile south of Piedra
where you fall suddenly away
from the highway. 107
in the valley and me
going dizzy, stopped the bike
and stumbled down
over the flat, patient stone, leaned out,
and then you in my eyes,
green tatters of memory, glimpses
of my own blood flashing
like fish, the grasses
dancing calmly, one silver point
like the charmed eye of an eel.
Five hours later I wakened
with the first darkness flowing
from the river bottom
through me to stone, to
the yellow land grasses and storming
the lower branches of the eucalyptus.
I could feel the water
draining from my blood and the stone
going out--the twin bushes of the lungs
held themselves seriously
like people about to take fire,
and when the first minnows startled
I rose into the sky. We
gathered every last tendril
of blue into our breath.
I named the stone John
after my mysterious second born.
High in the banks, slashed with silver,
riding the jagged blade of heaven
down to earth, the river shouts its name.
(from They Feed They Lion, Atheneum Press, 1972)