Читать книгу Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing - Marianne Boruch - Страница 18

Song Again, in Spring

The bird’s hunger, seeking shape: a worm shape, green

water bug shape passing out of

winter’s clawed shape, its toothed shape where it

froze and stayed

freezing, the hawk up there, branch

or ledge, staring out and —

blink — down.

So be it

in the imperial age of the 21st century which seeks its shape

in the drone, the kind

put up to the killing, air-conditioned office turned bunker,

Nevada, home of the sand flea

whose life span is about two minutes the last

I checked though in truth,

I’ve never checked.

It’s not a matter of just knowing.

Or that maybe the virtual bombardier is weeping at night

and feels bad about it.

Truth told

unto us: a worm shape is not

the worm. A worm, merely born to it like

an apple to its red eventually,

or the sea to its vast floating crosshatch of garbage,

plastic bags and cups from the big boats

and every who-gives-a-good-damn cute little

coastal spot, used-once forks

going brittle, snapping, drifting out to join their

cheap brethren, shining semi-continent of crap never

to decode/de-evolve/delete

for a thousand years if then, detritus of our time.

This we, this our and us thing —

A remote sensing device, garden path to a dark

darkest wood in the middle, etc. Confusion

as part, part coward, part crash

burning to quiet there.

Recalculate, recalculate, says the grown-up

robo-voice in the car, you’ve driven past your turn.

The turn was: I want I want alights on

oblivious, mouth-sized. Somewhere = sobbing.

It’s spring! A thing with wings taking aim.