Читать книгу The Age of Reasons - Ted Greenwald - Страница 21

POEM

theirs

dug in the hangars

wag away like idiots at a bird

the broad ball rolling through a dream lake

quickens, feeling the wind, the breath, quicken

like a scarf caught by a gust

a cigaret

finds itself reading in a hand

making cutouts

from such real emotions

as love

as transcendence

somehow all look like smoke

the cares that have piled up pile-drive

into the skull of tomorrow

resting on the desk of today to accept neat ashes

zeros are at 4 o’clock

while 4 o’clocks bloom at five

at 12:05 pm, mayday, a lady leaves