Читать книгу On Malice - Ken Babstock - Страница 25

Eleven years of green bread still

nobody, dear Lord, isn’t oneself,

but thank you. Isn’t that right? Give them a picture

of no bread, a mean flower more bush

than the love in their heads, a picture

of will separated from matter and head stuff.

The green being flensed, combed out, rehashed –

chesnut? beech? A severe

grade, the cobbles and brick fragments boiling

through topsoil. Night hikes up here

and chases out shreds, Finnish wind. A fragile

lantern tarp rags are whipping at.

Kemerovo, August 28, 1978, at 15:30, altitude 3900 m.