Читать книгу Intrusive Beauty - Joseph J. Capista - Страница 10

Thaw

All afternoon police unearth

the dead from roadside drifts of snow.

It happens like this every spring:

a passing motorist reports

dark tint inside a melting pile

or catches sunlight glinting off

a well-sewn button or a shoe.

Perhaps a hand, a bud unbloomed,

extends there toward imagined help.

Found are those whose orbit slipped

some imperceptible degree

before we ever thought them lost.

We watched a drifter stagger through

three lanes of traffic, arms asway

as if conducting some rush hour

motet his ears alone could hear.

He waved. I almost waved right back.

In lilac light the cruisers flashed

against the dusk. Someone dug.

Someone else rerouted cars.

We drove directly home to lie

together side by side, converse

about these newly exhumed dead.

You fear, I know, our daughter woke

mid-fight to hear about our own

dissolving dreams, this falling out of,

into love. The dead are neutral ground

and so, exhausted, spent, to them

we steer our words. It’s almost prayer.

Tonight they’ll rise from deep inside

of me as, half-asleep, I turn

and slip my hand in yours. But first,

so that my touch won’t startle you,

won’t wake you from unquiet dreams,

I’ll hold my hand out to the night

and let it grow a little cold.