Whenever I listen to Billie Holiday, I am reminded That I, too, was once banished from New York City. Not because of drugs or because I was interesting enough For any wan, overworked patrolman to worry about— His expression usually a great, gauzy spiderweb of bewilderment Over his face—I was banished from New York City by a woman. Sometimes, after we had stopped laughing, I would look At her & and see a cold note of sorrow or puzzlement go Over her face as if someone else were there, behind it, Not laughing at all. We were, I think, “in love.” No, I’m sure. If my house burned down tomorrow morning, & if I & my wife And son stood looking on at the flames, & if, then Someone stepped out of the crowd of bystanders And said to me: “Didn’t you once know. . . ?” No. But if One of the flames, rising up in the scherzo of fire, turned All the windows blank with light, & if that flame could speak, And if it said to me: “You loved her, didn’t you?” I’d answer, Hands in my pockets, “Yes.” And then I’d let fire & misfortune Overwhelm my life.
My Story in a Late Style of Fire
Larry Levis