Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 20

for Kay Ryan

Here comes that tinny bookmobile

and the children whinny and giggle,

their mouths in the shape of a comb,

a gaggle who open books and find

an ice cream cone is waiting, in icy

repose, just resting there in the gutter,

and when the children butterlick the

cone down flat their tongues turn

black and swell so big that they won’t

fit back and poems form on them.