Читать книгу Hustle - David Tomas Martinez - Страница 6

ON PALOMAR MOUNTAIN

The dark peoples with things:

for keys, coins, pencils

and pens our pockets grieve.

No street lights or signs,

no liquor stores or bars,

only a lighter for a flashlight,

and the same-faced trees,

similar-armed stones

and crooked bushes

staring back at me.

There is no path in the woods for a boy from the city.

I would have set fire to get off this wilderness

but Palomar is no El Camino in an empty lot,

the plastic dripping from the dash

and the paint bubbling like a toad’s throat.

If mountains were old pieces of furniture,

I would have lit the fabric and danced.

If mountains were abandoned crack houses,

I would have opened their meanings with flame,

if that would have let the wind and trees lead my eyes

or shown me the moon’s tip-toe on the moss—

as you effect my hand,

as we walk into the side of a Sunday night.