Philip Levine Poems

Two young men—you just might call them boys—
waiting for the Woodward streetcar to get
them downtown. Yes, they’re tired, they’re also
dirty, and happy. Happy because they’ve
...

Earth and water without form,
change, or pause: as if the third
day had not come, this calm norm
of chaos denies the Word.
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The long lines of diesels
groan toward evening
carrying off the breath
of the living.
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The first time I drank gin
I thought it must be hair tonic.
My brother swiped the bottle
from a guy whose father owned
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Lately the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
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Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
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THE DREAM

This has nothing to do with war
or the end of the world. She
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When the Lieutenant of the Guardia de Asalto
heard the automatic go off, he turned
and took the second shot just above
the sternum, the third tore away
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If you were twenty-seven
and had done time for beating
our ex-wife and had
no dreams you remembered
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Along the strand stones,
busted shells, wood scraps,
bottle tops, dimpled
and stainless beer cans.
...