Читать книгу Washita - Patrick Lane T. - Страница 17

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DISPENSATION

I see the dragonfly and the lily through a grey veil.

The clarity is like what I would like to remember

fine wine is and can’t because the distance is too great.

But the accuracy is there in spite of the refusal.

Yesterday I went to the garden as my mother did

in the surety of solitude, my crawling into the dark

in search of skeleton weed and hawkweed,

ragwort, spurge, hound’s tongue, toadflax.

The barren earth is what I want, the coolness there.

I know I almost know.

I am by the yellow lilies at the pond

staring at the water through the fretful wing of a dragonfly.

What is this divinity that I must search for it again?

My mother kneels under the mimosa, demure.

Which she wasn’t. But that I see her so

through the dragonfly’s pellucid wing. Going blind slowly.

The deep beyond the gossamer. The purity of that.

Washita

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