Читать книгу Phases - Mischa Willett - Страница 14

Just in time to catch the winter

wind, the willow prematurely

leaves, stringing wild

hair behind—not like a child

running, whose speed won’t lift

even the lightest spun

sugar of mane—but like a maenad,

whose fury shakes to very roots,

like faeries, fates, the thumping chest,

fear, future, abandoned creature of its own

posture: like snakes.