Читать книгу Door in the Mountain - Jean Valentine - Страница 86

Miles from Home

Grown, and miles from home, why do I shy

From every anonymous door-slam or dull eye?

The giant-step, the yawn

That streaked my dreams twenty years ago are gone;

The hero and nurse, the smashing Rubens hoof

And fist, the witch who rode my bedroom roof

And made my finger bleed, after all are man and wife

Whose mortal ribs I cracked to water my life,

Whose eyes I weighted keeping my late hours,

Loving my boys, chain-smoking in late, dead bars,

Watching the first light pickle Storrow Drive.

Why did I need that empty space to live?

The hand in the dark was my own, God knows whose cars.

The clay gods lean, and cast shadows under the stars,

Enjoying the blameless flowers on their Boston roof.

The watering-can's bland nozzle gleams like a hoof.