Читать книгу Second Bloom - Anya Krugovoy Silver - Страница 8

At the cape, I stood alone on a platform

watching swans gather, mallards and herons,

and below me, a single rabbit, feeding itself

in the twilight on soft, newly mown grass.

I don’t know why I’m still alive.

I don’t know how a line of poetry

sometimes loses itself and finds me.

I don’t understand why my body is drawn

to the marshes, or to the surf dragging

itself away from the shore.

Why does memory cling to the briny air,

settling in my hair like the sandy wind?

I’ve wasted so many days in half-life—

shopping, pop music, magazines.

I should have been thinking of holiness

and trying to find it—even on these humid

afternoons when there’s space for image

but the air is too dense to grasp the form.

I stand and watch the rabbit, a lean

wild one, as it attends to its hunger,

till a little girl comes stomping over,

shrieking, and it disappears in the wild roses.