Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 12
On waking every hour
ОглавлениеTrickster moonlight spreads like ice
across the leaves, leaving my
bewildered skin to wonder how
to sleep when the moon swells
to a ball of ice, then melts,
pouring light that behaves like water
on piping birds, vines knotted at
our window, and your exhausted arms.
Leaves, skin, and the fields beyond us
dip and coil in the moon’s glaze that
settles, thick as the iced river, on our bed.
We shift and whisper into sleep;
I count your breaths while the wet moon
spills itself on sleeping birds,
startling them into song before my
shadow unfolds on the loose air of dawn.
