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原标题:Cement Guitar_世界诗歌_好文学网

浏览次数:138 时间:2020-03-29

by Michael Carlson

All morning I've remembered St. Ignacio's bruise,

jaundiced seagulls over Quonset, November

and the gross white sky. Days so long

you walk home fifteen miles from the restaurant.

Same waitress every day of your life

and she never remembers your allergies.

Nothing on the map but scone crumbs

and a drop of tea. Just manifold food and a dead request

to bury the last of your seven receipts.

Mother of foster-wit, father of straw,

I can see how silence takes the place of those

who cut their thoughts in stone before they need them.

Stone is the past, and the past is a form of flattery.

Last winter, groups of children sent letters

in sadness for the late Christmas suicide.

Addressed to those who managed the fishery,

who named the docks and decided the colors of unfinished boats,

the only way to read them was alive.

To think out loud about those children's names

was to forget what you meant by dying.

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