Читать книгу Nearsighted - Richard Edwards - Страница 8

A clean-clipped row of bushing yews surrounds

Her house, the brightest flowers line the walk;

A happy home of well-adjusted life,

Yet numb to fore-friends dead as I to her.

But she’s not quite so dead to me. I wince

To think how typically I strived back then—

Achieving youth’s eternal competence:

To cache a lifetime’s worth of pointless guilt.