Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 12

He was late to the party and without directions,

though his invitation was secure, and his instincts

keenly honed to an acceptable edge, and as we are

waiting to see if the fates will hear our ode to joy,

we are given the sound of a man losing everything;

this is the hissing of his agitation, the sound of his

broken heart as it is given and fills with shards,

a piece of stone in an overgrown garden, a stiff,

bitter, life-long secrecy tipping over a robust

single indiscretion and no one is witness to the

villain, shaved to a shadow in that moment,

letting the sail of his love loose in a ripping wind

and that lost direction reducing his reflection to

a splinter as he spends his summer cutting down

the grass which grows right back and when the

colder weather comes to drive him down he trims

the fat of his summer words and their loose darkness

swims round his leather chair, the garden vines

emptied of tone, their edges’ innuendo snarling,

the hidden realities so carefully furrowed in shy

smiles and feigned deference which fasten his

fading future, slowly shot through with the wrinkles

of original meaning that he has never outgrown.