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