Читать книгу Northwood - Maryse Meijer - Страница 8

THE WORLD

I don’t draw you anymore.

I want

to see

through the trees.

The way the pen used

to feel,

a weapon, drawing blood from the page:

not a hymn,

not an homage—

why are the best songs love songs I want

to draw

death but death doesn’t make

music. On the page or

elsewhere.

The wood

doesn’t care if you live

or die. It

is dying all the time. Living. Unsurprised.

But I

am not

a wood, I am not a stream I mourn

the branch that

breaks from its body

and I want

to make a mark more than I want

to make love

but I was

only

ever good at this one

fucking thing