Читать книгу A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim - Страница 17

I read but a line from a Rilke poem

(“I want to become like one of those

who through the night go driving

wild horses.”), and I am struck dumb.

St. Paul thrown from an ass, voice

scaled like eyes at the sound of racing

hoofbeats.

I go without sound to the village

of Damascus where I fast and pray

and wonder that words can ever come

again. I move my lips. I run fingers

through the dirt at my feet, shaping syllables

(Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic) but not even the simple

beauty of one Rilke word. I’m a rider of asses

and can’t voice the dazzle of wild horses.