Читать книгу On Malice - Ken Babstock - Страница 27

You finish reading it. You cannot

finish reading it. Ice caught

in the can; later, the well. What

shall I be worried about,

the coward well and the ice does

such a lot. They know nothing

of cantilevered blown-out shells

who feed their worry

like veal barns. The dome’s aerial

my lodestar and icon, the squirrel

at dusk in the post-informational gloaming

can never not finish reading it as song.

July 9, 1979. 14:50, in clear conditions southeast of Kogalym.