Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 22

Winter Bouquet

Winter bouquet (yellow carnations). Winter Still Life (pomegranate drawn with the figures of a dream). The tiniest fleck of rock the wind tears off. I think of the stars. How can I? A man sets himself on fire to protest the war. A man is tortured inside a prison until he cannot speak. In our curtained days, in our walks along the railroad beds, constructing our alter egos, our additional force. Winter bouquet (rosehips, snowberry, spruce needles). Winter bouquet (oil of fir rubbed into my gloves). A famous Danish artist constructs a crystal sun and people queue up outside the museum to see it. It grieves and buries the heart, a throbbing stone. It lifts the heart, a rose stripped of its petals. What if the morning never comes? Deep shade the winter feeds in, our ministrations too close, tracing flowers, unearthly fruit inside the margins. And doing what, the winds unruly. Here, you say, bringing my gloves to my face, see as if the days will sometime lighten.