Читать книгу White Nightgown - Megan Gannon - Страница 10

The Dead, Dreaming

In this half-gleam

we don’t

sleep, but glisten

continuously.

Where the light

might

—we catch, sheet

lifted and bit

in the pin.

Does it concern you, this

being of one body?

Consider

hair, how much of it

is wind, how the wind

tatters

to tendrils and the tendrils

touch.

To be inside such

opalescence,

skin of milkglass, with inmost

listening the bridge of evening

and a child’s lost progress

past us

disquiets.

Dreaming, her one foot

leaving, we cling.

We would air her

nothingness

among us, safe

from the brightness,

the pulsing,

and the pocket of eggs

seed

deep in our teeth.