Читать книгу The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze - Страница 62

Unemployed, I recollect setting a plumb

line for the doorjambs to a house,

recollect nailing a rebar through two corbels

locked in a 60° angle into a post; and

smell unpicked cherries, fragrant,

in the dark rich earth. It is a pellucid

night in January: and the mind has its

own shifts in weather: a feel for light

from a star, or for a woman’s voice,

a recognition of the world’s greed,

of a death march on the Philippines, or

of being shot by an arrow dipped in curare.

Drinking tequila, I watch the moon

rise slowly over the black hills; a bird

sings, somewhere, out in the junipers.