Phillis Levin

That the dead are real to us Cannot be denied, That the living are more real When they are dead Terrifies, that the dead can rise As the living do is possible Is possible to surmise, But all the stars cannot come near All we meet in an eye. Flee from me, fear, as soot Flies in a breeze, do not burn Or settle in my sight, I’ve tasted you long enough, Let me savor Something otherwise. Who wakes beside me now Suits my soul, so I turn to words Only to say he changes Into his robe, rustles a page, He raises the lid of the piano To release what’s born in its cage. If   words come back To say they compromise Or swear again they have died, There’s no news in that, I reply, But a music without notes These notes comprise, still As spring beneath us lies, Already something otherwise.

To fish from a cloud in the sky You must find a comfortable spot, Spend a day looking down Patiently, clear-sighted. Peer at your ceiling: Where a light dangles, hook & line Could be slipping through. Under the hull of a boat A fish will see things this way, Looking up while swimming by — A wavering pole’s refraction Catching its eye. What will you catch? With what sort of bait? Take care or you’ll catch yourself, A fish might say, As inescapable skeins of shadow Scatter a net Over the face of the deep.

For this you may see no need, You may think my aim Dead set on something Devoid of conceivable value: An Anthology of  Rain, A collection of voices Telling someone somewhere What it means to follow a drop Traveling to its final place of rest. But do consider this request If you have pressed your nose Of any shape against a window, Odor of metal faint, persistent, While a storm cast its cloak Over the shoulder of every cloud In sight. You are free to say Whatever crosses your mind When you look at the face of time In the passing of one drop Gathering speed, one drop Chasing another, racing to reach A fork in the path, lingering Before making a detour to join Another, fattening on the way Until entering a rivulet Running to the sill. So please accept this invitation: You are welcome to submit, There is no limit to its limit, Even the instructions are a breeze As long as you include Nothing about yourself Except your name. Your address Remains unnecessary, for the rain Will find you — if you receive it It receives you (whether or not You contribute, a volume Is sent). And when you lift The collection you may hear, By opening anywhere, a drop And its story reappear As air turns to water, water to air.

Miep managed to snap them up for 27.50 guilders. Burgundy-colored 
suede and leather  ... — Anne Frank, Tuesday, August 10, 1943 When Miep took us home with her She held us up in the air, Eye-level with those eyes You may know, eyes spelling Sorrow-girl, wait-for-me, Happiness-around-a-corner- One-day, hurry-back, don’t-tell. Two new hands took us in, Skin cradling skin. How empty we had been, Only a little bit worn — Not a penny, not a pebble Dwelling within. We became an altar, An offering red as wine, A wishing well. She was made to carry us Near and far, We were made to bear The pressure of her feet In darkness, in light, Their sweetness, their heat. We were getting used to her. Miep calls us a handsome pair.