Читать книгу Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch - David Bottoms - Страница 10

Slow Nights in the Bass Boat

Some nights when the fishing slows,

when the stripers

and hybrids drift through the cove like elusive thoughts,

you crank in the jig, prop the rod in the boat.

Some nights the trees on the bank are black and soundless,

a fat wall of darkness,

and the silence on the water feels like the voice

of a great absence.

Across the wide cove the lights of the bait shop

flicker like insects,

and, finally, a few stars struggle through the shredded clouds.

Silence, then, exceeds the darkness. Silence.

You grasp the gunwales and lean forward,

you catch a long breath.

That gnawing in your chest sharpens and spreads.

Your grip tightens.

The rustle in your ear is something grand and awful

straining to announce itself.

Your jaw trembles. Out of your yearning

the silence shapes a name.