Читать книгу Wolf Centos - Simone Muench - Страница 12

Who will take the madness from the trees?

The petals of dead planets broken.

What do they matter now, the deprivations.

Your voice will never recover

what was said once, so when you hold

the hemisphere & once more take up the world,

I can see myself in you as though I were sitting

in a beautiful wound. I drink from your footprint

& see: a red wolf strangled by an angel

against the immeasurable sun. This terrifying

world is not devoid of charms—

the poppy that no girl’s finger has opened,

farmhouses dark against a sublime blue,

an airplane whistling from the other world.

In the distance someone is singing. In the distance

a slow, sweet song crowded with floating animals

& small artifacts: bell jar, honeycomb, revolver.

Can we describe the world this way—

with stars & bullet holes? A presence or its contrary?

Like dizzy horses that dissolve into a dust of sheen,

I pass through them as they pass through me.