Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 6

are best, how they lean forward, back,

though newer, thicker, those more deeply-etched

dip off-center (sideways) as well, perhaps weighing

their lucre. In either case, there seems to be

a pretty loud party going on in the other world:

maybe the late-night housekeeping staff?

Plastic cups left everywhere, one or two on a marker.

But how and to whom can you complain?

They’ve left parents to be there, old phone numbers,

baseball mitts—giving up the sunny world

for the sun; though it seems bad manners,

not to keep the directly-behind in order.

And what do the rest of us get out of this disarray:

morning’s cut of springtime, greenest grass?

It’s enough to turn you into Rodin, a thinker,

a college sophomore.

The sun will set again this evening. I may not like it,

but it will—in its going. (Nobody ever asks me

what I think about anything!)

More last birds, and soon enough the night

will breathe its dark and pleasant way in, get

all mythic, talking to us about the great space

between stars, Steven Hawking.

Here, on this side, all parties fail—as every

Buddhist knows, either for want of success

or because the joy cannot last, or come again. All

that’s left for us is giving: a consolation, as we ghost—

never complete–our sunny days, ordering dust,

furniture, waiting for the rest of us to show up.