Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 9

When you’re away, I cannot count

my fingers, clumped into a fist.

Days slide like pennies in a drawer.

I’m like the man who fell

headfirst on the stony path

and lost his numbers. Couldn’t count

the days to Friday or add

the nickels in his pocket. Seconds

blurred and minutes wouldn’t pass.

When you come back, I count

grapes and sips of wine. Each minute

says its name too clearly, each day

steps away, one two, one two,

and then it’s gone.