Читать книгу Purity of Absence - Dave Margoshes - Страница 22
ОглавлениеLate April mornings, when so much
and so little push at the edge
of sleep, tearing us away
from sweet oblivion,
applesauce life slides around,
filling us with warm expectation,
a bath deep as oceans
but shallow
as our breath as we stir
in dream waiting to enfold
us, take us under
far as the curve of sky.
This is the future, with past
and present spun around
like tinselled gift wrap
to make the package alluring
despite the hollow box
it hides, the stink of rotting
grass, the ache in the back
of the mouth. This
is the future, the face
staring back, the voice
at the other end, the touch
in the night, the road
on the other side
of the folded map leading
nowhere, circling back
to where we started,
April morning, sleep.
