Larry Levis Visits Easton, Pa., During a November Freeze

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I said, “Dear Larry,” as I put down his book, Elegy,

across the street from the Home Energy Center

and its two embellished secular Christmas trees

and its two red wreaths over red ribbon crosses

enshrining a thirty inch stove in one of its windows

and a fifty gallon water heater in the other,

knowing how wise he would have been with the parking lot

and the tree that refused against all odds and all

sane agreements and codicils to let its dead leaves

for God’s sake fall in some kind of trivial decency

and how he would have stopped with me always beside him

to watch a girl in a white fur parka and boots

build the first snowball on Northampton Street she collected

from the hood of a Ford Fairlane underneath that tree

and throw it she thought at a small speed limit sign

although it landed with a fluff just shy of the twin

painted center lines inducing the three of us,

her lover, Larry, and I to make our own snowballs

from the hoods and fenders of our own Fairlanes although

she threw like none of us and to add to it

she was left-handed, so bless her, may she have

a good job and children and always be free of cancer

and may the two of us scrape some roofs before the

rain relieves us, and may we find gloves for our labor.