Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 11

The life of the rough night

I found her in the morning cutting hair from her head

to burn or banish on the river,

a practice run at mourning. Why wait?

She’d risen from bed

to think about the dead getting closer to her parents

by the day, to not sleep

a little differently on the couch from how she’d turned

like a lathe on her side

of dreaming. She’d taken a crowbar to the dark, her eyes red

from trying to break inside

what has no end or center or beginning, while all night

crickets taunted,

Nothing changes. If you want to be reborn, die;

if you want to love,

hurry up: what’s a year, a decade, a life to water: a person’s

a sheaf of rain

in a thirsty world. Rain rain don’t go away: there is

no other day.