Читать книгу Pacific Walkers - Nance Van Winckel - Страница 10

My tapping for him

against the Corona. Ding

at the end of the line.

The trestle bridge,

a light table with a lean

negative him. The fording

of, the fire in the belly of.

Getting the outside air

coming in. Sleet as rain’s

sequel, and anxious

were the trees and good

the green fields pressing forward

and how great the distance.

Boxcars with zero sans serif,

with only space—space

maybe going somewhere.

Somewhere, how can we

leave it now?