Читать книгу Book of Dog - Cleopatra Mathis - Страница 12
ОглавлениеIf only the bird had been alive, not something dead
delivered onto sand; and not this packed cold sand,
where nothing moves even slightly, no blow-holes,
no scurrying things, and if only the shore birds’
seaweed nests, that little piping, hadn’t been smothered
by a freak spring tide. Now the plovers must begin again:
eggs and hatching, the mothers’ fake writhing
when they see me, squawking and dragging their wings
to save their chicks. Oh save me
from the whole painstaking work of early June—
this blowing fifty degrees, no sand bed of heat
in some dune bowl’s hollow, no love,
and on this outer beach Euphoria
just the name of the shack I want in this driving rain.
And if only it would stop, shut itself up for good—
this off-key if only that goes on singing,
like some deranged child, repeating.
