Читать книгу My Barefoot Rank - David Craig - Страница 6

but the foliage has no time for abstractions,

absorbing heat, sequestering, conspiring,

each vestige twisting in the wind.

They scrape against every new name

as they descend, trying to understand

what is happening in the world.

Water is their game, their long epitaph.

Stars are their residence.

Stolid, these trees are libraries, books—

as are the snails, the chained dog next door,

yapping in protest.

They all bow, stand against us, housing

our temporal lives.

This is why we push. This is why we define

ourselves and take their spaces for our own.

This is why we rage through our seven-year skins—

because we don’t live here forever, want to.

Each person struggles in a battle he can’t win,

sets himself against his planted grass, cuts it

every other Saturday, our angst against what is.