Читать книгу Trace - Eric Pankey - Страница 17
ОглавлениеAs of Yet
Call it paradise, this enclosure of trees.
No graves yet. No seasons. Time itself
As of yet uncreated. Nothing as of yet
Handmade. No stone knife. No bone needle.
No spear point. Call it paradise
Where a flint has yet to spark or deadfall
Flare beneath lightning, flare, then
Smother in a downpour, the char
Slick black beneath a first rainbow.
He has yet to learn to slaughter or tame the wolf,
To don the wolf-mask. As of yet, her body
Has not opened into birth, pain, and burden.
Beyond the enclosure of trees, a scattering
Of rocks they must still name and knap into tools:
Chert, agate, chalcedony, and for miles — Quick-quenched lava: obsidian.
