Читать книгу Trace - Eric Pankey - Страница 9

A Bird Loose in the House

The frame — a grid — contrives a theater,

A shadow-play alive on a curtain alive with wind.

Call the bird

The arbitrary inventoried in its variety,

Or perhaps

The embarkation into the ongoingness that follows.

The grid — at once minimal and complex —

Holds curves and intersections,

the plot

And the plotted, point by point,

Its line, its echoic spiraling.

Call the bird

The breath that blossoms and wilts.

Displaced, the bird afflicts the space,

Is the stigma by which the flawless is affirmed.

Call the bird

A sparrow

Call the house

The house we live in, The house of the Lord forever.