Читать книгу Stranger - Adam Clay - Страница 11

Northern Lights

Light or even a phrase or two

erased from the mind

like a once familiar street razed:

buildings destroyed, moved

elsewhere, tucked into the folds

of a tornado (you hope)—

One thinks many times not burdened by

but along with the clock—

Of course, it’s a pleasure to arrive most anywhere

these days filled with desire

but once the mind’s dwelling place becomes an ice cave

love defines its own tributaries with pine needles

or another way to say let’s only speak

in the absolutes of morning, free of comparison,

of a drifting scale tipped to an almost perfect balance:

none of that language needed now

between meals, between the future departing from disaster,

and once the mind slows to the point of regression,

then what to make of the first memory arrived upon or within

for you what would it be and know

you cannot know what it would be for others—

Even in their telling

there’s an orbit of masquerade around which no moon

could ever exist nor would it want to,

no perfect circle or symmetry to dwell within:

once the trees did not need their names and the night

needed no voice, it needed no knot

to unravel, it needed no one

to explain its madness to