Читать книгу Groundwork - Rustum Kozain - Страница 9

I know I’m too young for this,

him dead now forty years plus.

I can’t help and lift the bedding,

all of me trilling like an eel

when he whispers to me.

And then he’s here, long fingers

like unequivocal gods,

his lips like warm, despairing pawpaw,

like two lines of despairing Baldwin

and he stretches and strains.

Then he’s arching against me

but won’t let go of his guitar,

his fucking guitar. But so, still,

we make it. Slowly first

we make it, and the worlds fade.

All states of the world fade.