Читать книгу The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze - Страница 39

“Cabrón,” rings in his ears as he walks down

the corridor to death row. Where is the epicenter

of a Los Angeles earthquake? Hypocenter of Fat Man?

He watches a woman pour honey into a jar crammed

with psilocybin mushrooms. A few cells down,

a priest intones and oozes black truffles in olive oil.

He is about to look at the poems of a murderer,

sees a sliced five-thousand-year-old silkworm cocoon.

X: pinhole, eclipse; the, a; shadow of mosquito,

fern frond uncoiling in mist. “Dot,” says a Japanese

calligrapher who draws a dot beginning on the floor

off the page. He looks at the page, shrugs,

there is nothing there, and pictures budding chamisa

in a courtyard, yellow yarrow hanging over a bed.

In Waimea Canyon, ‘apapane, ‘i‘iwi. X: it’s

the shapes of ice in an ice floe, a light-green

glazed lotus-shaped hot-water bowl. He opens his eyes

and recalls staring into her eyes as she comes.