Two more poems by Denise Levertov


The Springtime

The red eyes of rabbits   
aren’t sad. No one passes
the sad golden village in a barge
any more. The sunset   
will leave it alone. If the   
curtains hang askew   
it is no one’s fault.
Around and around and around
everywhere the same sound   
of wheels going, and things   
growing older, growing   
silent. If the dogs
bark to each other
all night, and their eyes   
flash red, that’s
nobody’s business. They have   
a great space of dark to   
bark across. The rabbits   
will bare their teeth at   
the spring moon.

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Seeing for a Moment

I thought I was growing wings—
it was a cocoon.

I thought, now is the time to step   
into the fire—
it was deep water.

Eschatology is a word I learned
as a child: the study of Last Things;

facing my mirror—no longer young,
         the news—always of death,
         the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring   
                and howling, howling,

nevertheless
I see for a moment   
that’s not it: it is   
the First Things.

Word after word
floats through the glass.   
Towards me.