Читать книгу Door in the Mountain - Jean Valentine - Страница 40

Letter

The hornet holds on to the curtain, winter

sleep. Rubs her legs. Climbs the curtain.

Behind her the cedars sleep lightly,

like guests. But I am the guest.

The ghost cars climb the ghost highway. Even my hand

over the page adds to the ‘room tone': the little

constant wind. The effort of becoming. These words

are my life. The effort of loving the un-become. To make the suffering

visible. The un-become love: What we

lost, a leaf, what we cherish, a leaf.

One leaf of grass. I'm sending you this seed-pod,

this red ribbon, my tongue,

these two red ribbons, my mouth, my other mouth,

—but the other world—blindly I guzzle

the swimming milk of its seed field flower—