Читать книгу Cold Pastoral - Rebecca Dunham - Страница 9

MNEMOSYNE TO THE POET

For you, memory is but

an oil lamp to snuff, left to

smoke. Diademed by earth’s

velvet mantle. So easy

for you to ignore: hadal

press of sea, the open

vein’s plumes,

how they wheel like

a maelstrom up and down.

My sight spills through

waves of old, blown

glass. I am not permitted

to turn, pillow to cheek,

and wait for sleep to find me.

Am not permitted

to learn how not to look.