Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 7

again, and what could exist, does—

but not here. It’s spring

as it doesn’t happen in West Virginia:

humps of green daffodils, trees,

their darkened daylight dress.

His smile does not fill these skies;

our lives, a sigh: a wait

for what we would be.

And so this is where we work—

a shop for shavings or bits of stone;

an apron, all the little Geppettos,

Gaudier-Brzeskas; each, every day,

to his scappy corner, finding

drama, inventing epics.

Days need filling—stars invent the sky.

At least that’s what we tell ourselves:

rose petals covering the sidewalk,

a heart taking its sleeve.

And what else but resurrection

could give this? We speak words

that own us, dance to the we they make.

We are like torn flags high above

this heading, our do-wops, the tongues

of angels and flying fish.

Come into the shop sometime.

We will find the beer.