Читать книгу The Lease - Mathew Henderson - Страница 6

There are no signposts, no old men waiting

to tell you here. This place repeats itself;

everywhere you’ve been is folded into grass

and dirt, and you blame chance, not science,

for putting the iron here, like no seismic charts

were read, no holes drilled, as if wealthy men

and god just wanted you sweating in the mud.

But the cows, they can find borders even under

daylight’s sterile sun, watch nations grow

from boot prints, divide the plain by men

and else. They graze away, uncountable,

unheard as you walk the field, tool to tool,

with no sense of what is yours, and what is not.