Читать книгу Cold Pastoral - Rebecca Dunham - Страница 17

ATAVISM AT TWILIGHT

Lance and drain this ravened sky—hat in hand we will

Always return to you, prodigal. I swear we knew

Not what we did. I swear. Land unscrubbed to rust,

Gashed and bare—hell’s toothed pastoral. No

Excuses. Pitchfork my soul, millet on your scale, but

Let not this harvest strip flesh from bones. Pray

Unsheathe your sword and make of my heart a ragged tear.

Salvage this earth, snarl grass and field. I will take it all.