Читать книгу Phases - Mischa Willett - Страница 13

Pot shard in a frame:

the same as holding one’s breath

to remember the air, keeping

a lock of his hair. You weren’t there,

or, if you were, you’re not there

now, and this remembering doesn’t

put you back there somehow.

It’s a dream of having what

you don’t: a postcard from Rome,

talking on the phone.

I think to pocket maybe some small

piece that will call it all up for me.

Standing in the museum,

I’m trying to think how it will be

to be back. I won’t be the same,

and it won’t be anything like here,

but, having nothing to show,

I won’t be able to give you

the difference I want you to know.