Anthony
and the hedges wet in the rain, flake away in a sheet of wind,
and for a moment anyone working: rusty bells, April
birds, blatants brides, anything you can name that has not
died, so exactly, and even the wind like a lover’s hand,
a somehow important wind, something too like sleep or slain
enemies,
and the feet move through paths not restricted by the
bull-goaded mind,
and see—all and everywhere—hedges in the rain
like great min-cathedrals now, new Caesars, cats walking,
new gods without plug or wire, love without wasps,
new Christians, bulls, Romes, new new leaves, new rain
now splashing through the fire; and I close the door, old room,
I fall upon the couch, I sweat and I cough I cough small words
lions bearing down dint of coffee cups and puddles, I
sigh, Cleopatra. Not for either of us, but for the rest.
Ernest Miller Hemingway
© Copyright: Ольга Якушкина, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120022704154
Свидетельство о публикации №120022704154
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