Читать книгу Trace - Eric Pankey - Страница 20

Models of Paradise

The mountain, all haze and mist,

Is without fixed form,

yet by mid-morning

It stands clear: an ax-trimmed jade fragment.

After the afterimage slips away,

One utters against

the utter silence

And time congeals again, as always, as matter.

The water tastes of lead, or rather the aftertaste of lead:

Honey of exile,

salt of lacrimae antiquae — One part per billion yet distinct.

Distracted, I looked around as others prayed.

Sinew fitted to bone.

Muscle to sinew.

The body’s dust is dust.

Ice, a cold weld, holds for now.