Читать книгу Sun Bear - Matthew Zapruder - Страница 8

Aubergine

I lie in bed

staring at the ceiling

last night before

I fell asleep

I put the book

on the floor

looking down

I see its spine

with the golden

simple name

of the old

poet who might

already be dead

somehow he used

ancient magic

everyone says

we don’t need anymore

to place inside

me that perfect

sadness

at last

after all the formal

words of love

I could really imagine

how terrible

some day

not for fifty

years or so

but still

for one of us

to say goodbye

it will be

again fear

that is almost

seasickness and also

surely irrational

hope by that time

I will in some

way feel “ready”

through me

moves and then

asleep again

I am wearing

a dead rich

man’s black

luxurious overcoat

gold buttons

it is snowing

in a vast

wooden hallway

I am not cold

someone laughing

says just watch

them learn the same

lessons he means

my children I don’t

have yet

I touch the head

of a very important

black goat

and wake up again

the clock radio

says a small

tremor shook

some part

of the desert

no one lives in

tiny drones

we are flown

by what we do

not know into

blue election

season

inevitable spells

are cast

by warlocks

they move

their hands

and factories

rise or stadiums

into dust

collapse

8:10 a.m. December

San Francisco

rainy season

you pull on

your boots

I call them purple

the label says

Aubergine

you leave

for work

and by a jolt

of atavistic

sadness electrified

I move

once again

to the impassive

black desk

to clock

in for my eternal

internship

at the venerable

multinational

not for profit

Lucid & Dreaming