Читать книгу Blood Orbits - Ger Killeen - Страница 10

Finisterre

Only the doggerel

of forgetting, bitten-off palatals

of Gaulish spat

out of baffled faces, crab-

crackle of carpals: it is

late; a whirring psalm salts itself

in between the embroiderd edges

of every scar combed across

the tableaux of unicorns and roses

massed on the endless

leveled lands behind. The sea

widens its blind eye. All

I want to know is

who sees this,

what has been hoped

asunder by wave after wave

of men in invisible ships?