Читать книгу The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze - Страница 31

You find a downy woodpecker on the bedroom floor.

I am startled and listen in the snowy dark

to deer approach a house and strip yew leaves.

In pots, agapanthuses are opening umbels

of violet flowers. Neither driven by hunger

nor flowering in the moment, what drives an oologist

to distinguish finch eggs from wren or sparrow?

What drives a physicist to insist the word

sokol means falcon in Hungarian? If you know

the names of a bird in ten languages, do you know

any more about the bird? Driving past an ostrich farm,

I recollect how you folded a desert willow blossom

into a notebook; I recollect rolling down

a white dune at dusk, pulling a green jade disk

on a thread at your throat into my mouth.

I know what it is to touch the mole between your breasts.