Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 19

This is my last letter. The first one

disappointed in a love triangle has

lost the game. Some things upon

which I’ve aimed were undoubtedly

innocent; but that is for others to decide.

I’ve tried to rope the world in countless

ways and have done the best I can,

with tangled prayers and no reprieve.

The danger in the Beast is its seasons.

The morning star enlightened Buddha

and his first words formed a poem

out of the desperate ardors,

adders made of words, blind as a boxer,

striking out at every sound.

How do we discriminate?

The map is linear, but poetry is

circular and continuous,

untangling as it tells.