Читать книгу Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing - Marianne Boruch - Страница 15

We’re Not Insects

though we keep time, sort of.

And make our own

white noise. Ask the half-deaf who

lean closer, every word

bottom of a well, under rock and water

and here comes the bucket on a rope,

hitting the mossy sides

the whole way up, here where

cicadas begin in the body, all

its pools and deeps

and dusk. Insects that never

entered the garden by

invitation but their

triumph, their pulse and

their pulse —