Читать книгу Still Working It Out - Brad Davis - Страница 14

Winter antelopes into erstwhile

dogmas committed against an ivory

cane, and three ducats of pilsner

can’t buy me lust or you levitating

with one hand on the other in arcs

of unctuous radiator steam falling

all over itself like drunken blind luck

or a dispossessed Carnegie.

Don’t get me wrong. Trains are

my optimal frame of deference,

their unsung articles gallivanting

the transvaal with brash gargoyles

in a grand quartersawn wish

to make moguls of slush piles

the old-fashioned way, by blowing

in their alabaster nostrils. And reeking

of time, I am here to report that

the gossamer intersection of infinite

space and your sizzling flywheel