Читать книгу My Barefoot Rank - David Craig - Страница 9

are tiny door stops, mice prints

down a dark hall. I do not live in that house;

no one ever has. Beethoven sits on a plush,

dusty chair, lampshade over his illumined head—

the only bulb under a high ceiling,

distressed molding.

A wolf moon shines on a staircase,

but you cannot live there either.

This is what you must keep: the truth of how little

you are, or, better, of how little there is of you.

(Who would miss that when the time comes?)

And all the measureable world?

Something for science.

Your children, as well: how vain to expect

some stepping off point, where they will find fertile

earth, a perfect mate, though in their noons

it will seem so.

We work in the presence of a God we cannot see—

a night. You can lift your little sailboat,

sail it against a window, the snow outside.

Whatever you can add, I don’t want it.

There’s nothing else here—too much to take away.