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Totally shameless Hecht Here in the haywire weeds, concealed by wilds Of goldenrod and toadflax, lies a spur With its one boxcar of brick-colored armor, At noon, midsummer, fiercer than a kiln, Rippling the thinness of the air around it With visible distortions. Among the stones Of the railbed, fragments of shattered amber That held a pint of rye. The carapace Of a dried beetle. A broken orange crate Streaked with tobacco stains at the nailheads In the gray, fractured slats. And over all, The dust of oblivion finer than milled flour Where chips of brick, clinkers and old iron Burn in their slow, invisible decay. Or else it is late afternoon in autumn, The sunlight rusting on the western fronts Of a long block of Victorian brick houses, Untenanted, presumably condemned, Their brownstone grapes, their grand entablatures, Their straining caryatid muscle-men Rendered at once ridiculous and sad By the black scars of zigzag fire escapes That double themselves in isometric shadows. Добавить комментарий: |
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