Читать книгу Ordinary Time - Michael D. Riley - Страница 12

Tugging his shoulders after him,

flimsy rake tines tremble through leaves

dank and flat as stripped skin.

Down his thighs his muscles grieve

their work under pewter skies.

December’s stainless steel winds

incise the bared face of his alibis.

He is naked neck to shins

under these clothes, and alone.

Roots beneath his feet, he’s been told,

hold these waving branches down.

He feels how deep they are. And cold.

The necessary work lags, stalls

against this iron ground freezing

into permanence. He pulls

night closer with every swing.

Painfully, he leans forward.

Indistinct mounds surround him.

The moon disappears. He looks toward

the house, its sharp edges growing dim.

Soon he must go in. The wind

is rising, nailing leaves to the trees

and his rake again. The ground

beneath one golden window glows.