Читать книгу I Call to You from Time - Judith Sornberger - Страница 12

There never is much light

in these enclosures.

Nor do eyes rise

to spark a reflection.

The light requires

an eyelid, cheek, lace

collar as palette.

As thread relies on

the sharp eye, the minuet

of fingers, pins and bobbins.

She doesn’t know

how small she is—

one of his tiny canvasses—

or that she is detained,

held still as a fly

in the dried paint.

If she tried to stretch

her arms or stand,

she might flutter

into a tarantella,

batter her composure.

Patient as a spider,

she works light

into pattern, draws

from her dark interior

the single strand

of her attention.