OCR Text |
Show Survivor- page 2. and suddenly over our faces! Nothing is real. I have waked from nowhere the water has not been: though brownly back the river folds its blanket, though sun draws up rainwetness in a mist, the village is not at home; chickens lie mud-heavy feathers, dogs and goats bloat in the wedge of walls, of trees. alhere are my friends who shared the wedding wine? Where she, who was mine? I said: I will ask the Church, I will beg of the Saints- but their paint is stripped off; they are fallen from their niches over the priest a crumple of black where black the waters ran crumbling the holy house, weighting with rubble his robe of faith, his little cross, his stopped breath. In dank sag of hours under the wrenched roofs or scattered among shutters, eyes gone stone, mouths made pockets for puddles, are my blood's brothers waiting the flies and the green weeds, the beaded prayers and candles? ...My hands will search for them, heart seeking always another- river-torn from me, where taken, ruined, among what broken green of limbs, in the shroud of her hair, shall I find her? |