Читать книгу Dangerous Goods - Sean Hill - Страница 12

POSTCARD FROM A DESTINATION

I’ve heard a man would need a keel

bone six feet long

to cradle muscle enough to pull him

up on his own, keep him in the air,

or wind between a breeze and a gale,

a bit more than enough water

to drown in, and a sense

of displacement to set sail.

A keel bone is not a rudder, but

either can get you here.

I suppose I should say, it was warm

and clear here today, or

boats have keels and birds

have keel bones.

Was I the space between the ruffled

feathers on a robin’s red breast

—a wispy yen for warmth—before

you knew me?

A keel’s leading edge

is called a cutwater,

not to be confused with

a shearwater—a seabird

seldom seen from shore.

This note could fit in a bottle; one’s

being emptied; the last red drop rolls

down its neck.

Soon dregs will rest in the curve

of the wineglass’s belly—a hammock’s

sag here, where the day’s dregs sit on the sea

at the far edge of everything.

Here is me; I am here; I am desire; I

am nothing when you come, I fear.

I’ll miss you when you’re here. Stay

home; keep me forever.