Читать книгу My Barefoot Rank - David Craig - Страница 5

future flowers—a field we haven’t come to.

Days there are always what they are:

blue; the sun, colored chalk on the sidewalk.

We’ll be finished—but won’t be, not really.

There will be so much to fill us in on,

so much of the new; everything but the next day,

dandelion spores discoursing expansively

on the fundamentals of the universe.

There will be smiles from someone you

might have known. Socrates will fill you in,

his life at fifteen—in other words, things will be

just as they are now—only you will hear

what words mean: each loaded, like Keats’s fruit;

that ceiling, still as it was in 1821—but transformed.

You’ll be able to sit better Steps.

Apples will offer hardier apples,

his chamber music opening as it always has,

into something else—the cross,

which makes everything clear.