Читать книгу A Midnight Clear - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 4

I gasp in the still of one breath;

A wisp of bird feathers burning,

The smell of death in a flower.

Nothing to see and nothing to say;

Afraid to look, I can’t turn away;

My blink of emptiness pearling gray.

I watch myself watching me watching me.