Читать книгу I Know Your Kind - William Brewer D. - Страница 13

HALFWAY HOUSE DIARY

Somewhere at the bottom of the world a whale sings to itself,

running through its temple of otherlight and salt.

I have decided water has a god and its name is gravity.

When it’s my turn to fix the gutters, I call myself

Master of the Aqueducts.

When on some mornings, as with this one,

I wake to my roommate bent over my bed,

wrapped in his sheets, whispering,

You’re only half-here,

I pretend it doesn’t wreck me,

that I don’t wonder all day where the other half went.

In the sun’s mouth, where for years I pissed heaven?

In the arithmetic of things I was never able to say?

What’s the point?

What’s lost isn’t dead until it’s found.

The river ice is breaking up,

smokewhite glass washing over the voiceless stones,

and I can’t help but take it personally.

Some nights, a whale song.

I’m halfway here and it’s almost too much.