Читать книгу The Final Voicemails - Max Ritvo - Страница 12

DELPHI

Everyone asks you what the god thinks—

I want to know what you think.

Behind the temple, a short lady

bends in terror over a shallow pond’s edge.

I tell her if she wants opinions

she has to get to the other side

and undress—a bamboo hedge

will tastefully obscure her

—peach and coconut flashes

behind vegetable prison bars—

that the prison is the mind,

that the pond is what we call thought.

She’s not so short her hair

would get muddy—

only the washable robes

and sandals.

I get into the pond and point out a path of rocks,

and my bald head too,

so she may step across.

I tell her to think of my bald head

as a squeaky, dense pill

of white medicine.