Читать книгу Door in the Mountain - Jean Valentine - Страница 51

Sheep

With the winter and mud and shit roped into your wool,

Your black stick legs, blank eyes—

The farmer stumps home to his supper

And you are beyond your own bells

And my friend is in pain and there's nothing I can do,

Suffering is everywhere intense, and if

We make our own pain ourselves, who can help it? Cold selves, Cold you, unbearable clamor and rust—