Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 12

at the University, my rising dust cloud,

charming—because contained;

as if I’ve become a kind of local color

in the halls, a man who might be seen,

talking to himself on a corner

of the stage, next to Schroeder

who is almost listening, at his piano;

Lucy, finally dancing—at the climax

of the Christmas show, I know too

that I have somewhere to go

when this night is over, the last

trace of carolers, lingering

in the animated air:

to the crib, (Schroeder’s music

again, now distant, soft) where dirt,

airborne debris are not new or

unexpected, where the ones who do