Читать книгу The Language of Loss - Barbara Abercrombie - Страница 13

Drive toward the Juan de Fuca Strait.

Listen to “Moondog Matinee.”

No song ever written gets close to it:

how it feels to go on after the body

you love has been put into the ground

for eternity. Cross bridge after bridge,

through ten kinds of rain, past

abandoned fireworks booths,

their closed flaps streaked with soot.

Gash on the flank of a red barn:

Jesus Loves You. 5 $ a Fish.

He’s dead. Where’s your miracle?

Load a tape into the deck so a woman

can wear out a love song. Keep moving,

keep listening to the awful noise

the living make.

Even the saxophone, its blind,

unearthly moan.

—DORIANNE LAUX