Читать книгу The Anti-Grief - Marianne Boruch - Страница 13

I Saw a House, a Field

Most of the rooms muted by cold,

and the furniture there

with its human chill under vast drapes

of plastic for the season—

Because eventually we are

an austerity, walking room to room

enamored and saddened, all the crazy variations

of bed and table, clocks,

books on a shelf, foreign harbors etched

some yesterday, framed for a wall.

And the effrontery of windows assuming

how lovely out, a certainty

of lawn and woods, distance on a road, voices

that in summer drift up and move away.

Desire. That continues

and continuing is the part loved

just as there is emptiness with an occasion in it,

clothes to remove before you ease into a bath.

Branches and branches scraping is

winter. And after midnight, near morning when

I stepped out, the moon by half,

was it deer I saw? A little one and maybe

its mother. Or they were

smaller than deer. Or larger.

Oh but they were strange, stopped

across the snow like that.