Читать книгу Where the Sky Opens - Laurie Klein - Страница 11

Riff after riff cascades from a cottonwood—

too bad nobody here speaks Bird anymore.

Oh, for a madcap diva in peacock blue,

her feathered train a ladder of eyes.

Give her a voice that breathes out honey

and arias warm as the primal yawn:

praise unfurled, wingspan wide . . .

Or summon an earnest, mustachioed tenor

whose cedary timbre makes us believe

taproots bebop under our feet,

desert hyacinth bulbs groove, beneath dunes,

while sea wind composes its chorus of stones.

Where is that diva now?

We want a translation for sky

unscrolling this endless score.

And we call for a thousand Bocelli birds

singing acres of wind and cloud

with the breadth of a robe, fallen open.