Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 8

gets nocturnal—lunar white depressions,

vast, dim seas. He feels the ocean in dark leaves,

laments for us all—a world that eats its own.

It’s his burden, to bring what his masters can’t:

life, a gut-bag on the forest floor, downy drifts

rocking tall limbs, reasons for distress.

I wouldn’t want to live there, greased,

though perhaps we do so when we enter the world

of basement laundry. Or maybe we go through

our rounds to keep us from its cold fissures.

My daughter has a burden for the small

of this world, for women. That is why we, parents,

re-spell “grass”: ferning colors, building.

There is no security on this frozen dirt, except

in the fact that God brings the world to bear

so heavily upon us—that we, reduced to who

we are, might leave a print, worthy

of the dust and forms we find.