Читать книгу Grace, Fallen from - Marianne Boruch - Страница 14

eclipsed itself, the rumor of darkness

true, the whole radiant business

almost over, only a line,

an edge, like some

stray part of a machine

not one of us

can figure any more:

what it thrashed or cut, what it sewed

quietly together, what it scalded

or brought back from the dead. After this,

I came inside to sleep.

But it’s the moon still,

pale run of it shaping

the door closed against the half-lit hall.

The eye is its own

small flicker orbiting under the lid

a few hours.

Not so long,

bright rim,

giving up its genius

briefly, mountains under dark, craters

where someone, then no one

is walking.