Читать книгу Grace, Fallen from - Marianne Boruch - Страница 12

under a pen isn’t

snow. I see the real thing

out my window piled up

in cold sunlight. It just isn’t.

Isn’t a lapse

of anyone’s memory though

that might help me sleep. I’m anyone

at night.

New paper getting inked up

already with words. Revision: inked up

already with these words.

But it is, it is

a cold war movie

about Russia. Lots of tundra, and little

mustached figures bundled up

in the corner, waiting

to do something. On skis.

Or dog sleds. A throw-back. Before

the Revolution? Before the Revolution.

Or not. I can’t make it out

for the snow locked

back in that theater,

voices that blast

the eardrum

straight, such would-be whispers

of love. How is it

that time has

layers and layers,

some of which never move

or fill up. Meanwhile: a favorite word

any poem understands to be

snow’s most legendary suggestion.

The second: melt.

The third: I need to

freeze first.