Читать книгу Painstaker - Jeffrey Galbraith - Страница 10

Almost as thick as the young corn

on our farm were the flies, breeding

on more and more manure

from the hogs. You kept your mouth

closed walking around. Reach

your hand into the buzzing fog

and you’d catch clod after clod.

Once I caught two stuck tight,

a shudder in air, stone-faced, just

as they began to soar a great distance.

Lost to myself I think on them,

how the rich dung intrudes

into nearby towns,

where the thick smells waft, come down.