sábado, 23 de abril de 2011

“Spring” by Denis Johnson


by now even the ground

deep under the ground has dried.

the grass becoming green


does not quite remember the last year,

or the year before, or the centuries

that kept passing over. all of these blades thought

that america’s grief over the ruptured


flesh of its leaders

was another wind going into the sky.

a rabbit stiffens


with hard sorrow up from the grass

and runs. well,

it is another spring and in the clouds


it is the ranging spectacle of a crowd

of congressmen accusing one another, each

moving in his own shadow against the next.


No hay comentarios: