Читать книгу Not on the Last Day, But on the Very Last - Justin Boening - Страница 8

WHEN I CANNOT SLEEP—DAY SIX—A LETTER

The wind is having its way with the house tonight,

with the windows.

It’s finally possible

to undress myself like a Corinthian. I remove

the crickets

from my pillow, place the clock

facedown, lay my brass collar stays

in a leather box.

It’s my turn to suffer.

The stovepipe gnaws through the room like an emperor

who’s lost his voice,

and you’re at it again,

burning laps in the ambulance

out on the frozen lake.

Everything seems

like something you’d say to me

in a small town

to keep me breathing like a little beast—

skein of brant breaking heavy, some cut-loose

kindling. Neither of us

has been perfect.

I carry my fistful of pebbles,

you still threaten to swallow them down

when I’m distracted, lost

in a squall of chrysanthemums

and the weird. Place the world

back in orbit—

I was mistaken. If you do not

come closer, we will not

need our umbrage.

It is not snow that covers us,

nor spooks, nor wind, just as

this isn’t a shadow

(say stranger), or the carrying off

of one animal in place of another.