Читать книгу Love's Last Number - Christopher Howell - Страница 12

BUT BEFORE THAT

we lay awake all night, dreams thickening

like hair in the cold branches

and ready to descend, ready to know

what had become and what would be.

She said, “I thought just now an owl

flew out of me, an emerald being, a species

of moon.”

And I said, “Sometimes.”

It was so cold we grew afraid of a warmth

that moved in the woods nearby, beginning

to curl toward us like a smile.

So we prayed and the sun came up with not

a single barnyard crowing, not one worried dog.

We ate snow and kissed and thought of dancing.

We knew where we were and that we were

what others would call an escape ecstatic

with grief because we were so few,

because our shadows wore so many

unforgettable strangers.

So there would be warmth and food, and still days

by the river. There would be each other again

and again in the light of a naked

and forgiving room. There would be nameless

secrets that would need nothing but to ask

“Does anyone really survive?”

and keep on asking.