Читать книгу Dangerous Goods - Sean Hill - Страница 10

POSTCARD TO WRONG ADDRESS

Yesterday I was, one place to begin

and Today I saw, another, but I

know I doesn’t matter to you. You

don’t know I or me for that matter.

But you are appropriate—

appropriately unfit like the not it

we sang out in our childhood games.

You’re like a confessional or, maybe,

the restaurant suggestion box;

you don’t care if I’m penitent

or cynical. I could tell you about

the side of paradise I hiked

today with its flora and fauna—

the birds! or the Sidle Parade,

a subtle spectacle I saw yesterday,

and it matters not. I could tell

you how I really feel about my

father or my shoe size, and they’d

both have the same weight like

the Weighing of the Heart—the soul

needs to balance the feather to gain

entry into heaven. Tomorrow

I intend to go to the Dead Man’s

Button Museum. They’re also

called dead man’s throttles—installed

in trains in case an engineer keels

over. Without pressure, the brakes engage.