Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 16

Green plush of bank moss, a smell

like after rain, and the creek

deepening behind the shed

where Nolan White spent his time

to wedge hours and seconds

out of time, free them to spill

out the open door as if

another current flowing

through the pool where I sank worms

to raise watery rainbows.

His one son had died, so now

he worked alone, making clocks

for Boone tourists. Once I laid

down my tackle, stepped inside

a moth-swirl of ticks and chimes,

at the center lathed chestnut

laid upon two sawhorses,

what Nolan White bent over,

hands dipping in, attentive

as a surgeon as he set

each gear in place. When it stirred

he brought me close, let me hear

that one pulse among many.