The Widening Spell of the Leaves

　　by Larry Levis

　　 Once， in a foreign country， I was suddenly ill.

　　 I was driving south toward a large city famous

　　 For so little it had a replica， in concrete，

　　 In two-thirds scale， of the Arc de Triomphe stuck

　　 In the midst of traffic， & obstructing it.

　　 But the city was hours away， beyond the hills

　　 Shaped like the bodies of sleeping women.

　　 Often I had to slow down for herds of goats

　　 Or cattle milling on those narrow roads， & for

　　 The narrower， lost， stone streets of villages

　　 I passed through. The pains in my stomach had grown

　　 Gradually sharper & more frequent as the day

　　 Wore on， & now a fever had set up house.

　　 In the villages there wasn't much point in asking

　　 Anyone for help. In those places， where tanks

　　 Were bivouacked in shade on their way back

　　 From some routine exercise along

　　 The Danube， even food was scarce that year.

　　 And the languages shifted for no clear reason

　　 From two hard quarries of Slavic into German，

　　 Then to a shred of Latin spliced with oohs

　　 And hisses. Even when I tried the simplest phrases，

　　 The peasants passing over those uneven stones

　　 Paused just long enough to look up once，

　　 Uncomprehendingly. Then they turned

　　 Quickly away， vanishing quietly into that

　　 Moment， like bark chips whirled downriver.

　　 It was autumn. Beyond each village the wind

　　 Threw gusts of yellowing leaves across the road.

　　 The goats I passed were thin， gray； their hind legs，

　　 Caked with dried shit， seesawed along--

　　 Not even mild contempt in their expressionless，

　　 Pale eyes， & their brays like the scraping of metal.

　　 Except for one village that had a kind

　　 Of museum where I stopped to rest， & saw

　　 A dead Scythian soldier under glass，

　　 Turning to dust while holding a small sword

　　 At attention forever， there wasn't much to look at.

　　 Wind， leaves， goats， the higher passes

　　 Locked in stone， the peasants with their fate

　　 Embroidering a stillness into them，

　　 And a spell over all things in that landscape，

　　 Like . . .

　　 That was the trouble； it couldn't be

　　 Compared to anything else， not even the sleep

　　 Of some asylum at a wood's edge with the sound

　　 Of a pond's spillway beside it. But as each cramp

　　 Grew worse & lasted longer than the one before，

　　 It was hard to keep myself aloof from the threadbare

　　 World walking on that road. After all，

　　 Even as they moved， the peasants， the herds of goats

　　 And cattle， the spiralling leaves， at least were part

　　 Of that spell， that stillness.

　　 After a while，

　　 The villages grew even poorer， then thinned out，

　　 Then vanished entirely. An hour later，

　　 There were no longer even the goats， only wind，

　　 Then more & more leaves blown over the road， sometimes

　　 Covering it completely for a second.

　　 And yet， except for a random oak or some brush

　　 Writhing out of the ravine I drove beside，

　　 The trees had thinned into rock， into large，

　　 Tough blonde rosettes of fading pasture grass.

　　 Then that gave out in a bare plateau. . . . And then，

　　 Easing the Dacia down a winding grade

　　 In second gear， rounding a long， funneled curve--

　　 In a complete stillness of yellow leaves filling

　　 A wide field--like something thoughtlessly，

　　 Mistakenly erased， the road simply ended.

　　 I stopped the car. There was no wind now.

　　 I expected that， & though I was sick & lost，

　　 I wasn't afraid. I should have been afraid.

　　 To this day I don't know why I wasn't.

　　 I could hear time cease， the field quietly widen.

　　 I could feel the spreading stillness of the place

　　 Moving like something I'd witnessed as a child，

　　 Like the ancient， armored leisure of some reptile

　　 Gliding， gray-yellow， into the slightly tepid，

　　 Unidentical gray-brown stillness of the water--

　　 Something blank & unresponsive in its tough，

　　 Pimpled skin--seen only a moment， then unseen

　　 As it submerged to rest on mud， or glided just

　　 Beneath the lustreless， calm yellow leaves

　　 That clustered along a log， or floated there

　　 In broken ringlets， held by a gray froth

　　 On the opaque， unbroken surface of the pond，

　　 Which reflected nothing， no one.

　　 And then I remembered.

　　 When I was a child， our neighbors would disappear.

　　 And there wasn't a pond of crocodiles at all.

　　 And they hadn't moved. They couldn't move. They

　　 Lived in the small， fenced-off backwater

　　 Of a canal. I'd never seen them alive. They

　　 Were in still photographs taken on the Ivory Coast.

　　 I saw them only once in a studio when

　　 I was a child in a city I once loved.

　　 I was afraid until our neighbor， a photographer，

　　 Explained it all to me， explained how far

　　 Away they were， how harmless； how they were praised

　　 In rituals as "powers." But they had no "powers，"

　　 He said. The next week he vanished. I thought

　　 Someone had cast a spell & that the crocodiles

　　 Swam out of the pictures on the wall & grew

　　 Silently & multiplied & then turned into

　　 Shadows resting on the banks of lakes & streams

　　 Or took the shapes of fallen logs in campgrounds

　　 In the mountains. They ate our neighbor， Mr. Hirata.

　　 They ate his whole family. That is what I believed，

　　 Then. . .that someone had cast a spell. I did not

　　 Know childhood was a spell， or that then there

　　 Had been another spell， too quiet to hear，

　　 Entering my city， entering the dust we ate. . . .

　　 No one knew it then. No one could see it，

　　 Though it spread through lawnless miles of housing tracts，

　　 And the new， bare， treeless streets； it slipped

　　 Into the vacant rows of warehouses & picked

　　 The padlocked doors of working-class bars

　　 And union halls & shuttered， empty diners.

　　 And how it clung！ （forever， if one had noticed）

　　 To the brothel with the pastel tassels on the shade

　　 Of an unlit table lamp. Farther in， it feasted

　　 On the decaying light of failing shopping centers；

　　 It spilled into the older， tree-lined neighborhoods，

　　 Into warm houses， sealing itself into books

　　 Of bedtime stories read each night by fathers--

　　 The books lying open to the flat， neglected

　　 Light of dawn； & it settled like dust on windowsills

　　 Downtown， filling the smug cafés， schools，

　　 Banks， offices， taverns， gymnasiums， hotels，

　　 Newsstands， courtrooms， opium parlors， Basque

　　 Restaurants， Armenian steam baths，

　　 French bakeries， & two of the florists' shops--

　　 Their plate glass windows smashed forever.

　　 Finally it tried to infiltrate the exact

　　 Center of my city， a small square bordered

　　 With palm trees， olives， cypresses， a square

　　 Where no one gathered， not even thieves or lovers.

　　 It was a place which no longer had any purpose，

　　 But held itself aloof， I thought， the way

　　 A deaf aunt might， from opinions， styles， gossip.

　　 I liked it there. It was completely lifeless，

　　 Sad & clear in what seemed always a perfect，

　　 Windless noon. I saw it first as a child，

　　 Looking down at it from that as yet

　　 Unvandalized， makeshift studio.

　　 I remember leaning my right cheek against

　　 A striped beach ball so that Mr. Hirata--

　　 Who was Japanese， who would be sent the next week

　　 To a place called Manzanar， a detention camp

　　 Hidden in stunted pines almost above

　　 The Sierra timberline--could take my picture.

　　 I remember the way he lovingly relished

　　 Each camera angle， the unwobbling tripod，

　　 The way he checked each aperture against

　　 The light meter， in love with all things

　　 That were not accidental， & I remember

　　 The care he took when focusing； how

　　 He tried two different lens filters before

　　 He found the one appropriate for that

　　 Sensual， late， slow blush of afternoon

　　 Falling through the one broad bay window.

　　 I remember holding still & looking down

　　 Into the square because he asked me to；

　　 Because my mother & father had asked me please

　　 To obey & be patient & allow the man--

　　 Whose business was failing anyway by then--

　　 To work as long as he wished to without any

　　 Irritations or annoyances before

　　 He would have to spend these years， my father said，

　　 Far away， in snow， & without his cameras.

　　 But Mr. Hirata did not work. He played.

　　 His toys gleamed there. That much was clear to me . . . .

　　 That was the day I decided I would never work.

　　 It felt like a conversion. Play was sacred.

　　 My father waited behind us on a sofa made

　　 From car seats. One spring kept nosing through.

　　 I remember the camera opening into the light . . . .

　　 And I remember the dark after， the studio closed，

　　 The cameras stolen， slivers of glass from the smashed

　　 Bay window littering the unsanded floors，

　　 And the square below it bathed in sunlight . . . . All this

　　 Before Mr. Hirata died， months later，

　　 From complications following pneumonia.

　　 His death， a letter from a camp official said，

　　 Was purely accidental. I didn't believe it.

　　 Diseases were wise. Diseases， like the polio

　　 My sister had endured， floating paralyzed

　　 And strapped into her wheelchair all through

　　 That war， seemed too precise. Like photographs . . .

　　 Except disease left nothing. Disease was like

　　 And equation that drank up light & never ended，

　　 Not even in summer. Before my fever broke，

　　 And the pains lessened， I could actually see

　　 Myself， in the exact center of that square.

　　 How still it had become in my absence， & how

　　 Immaculate， windless， sunlit. I could see

　　 The outline of every leaf on the nearest tree，

　　 See it more clearly than ever， more clearly than

　　 I had seen anything before in my whole life：

　　 Against the modest， dark gray， solemn trunk，

　　 The leaves were becoming only what they had to be--

　　 Calm， yellow， things in themselves & nothing

　　 More--& frankly they were nothing in themselves，

　　 Nothing except their little reassurance

　　 Of persisting for a few more days， or returning

　　 The year after， & the year after that， & every

　　 Year following--estranged from us by now--& clear，

　　 So clear not one in a thousand trembled； hushed

　　 And always coming back--steadfast， orderly，

　　 Taciturn， oblivious--until the end of Time