Beginning on a Line by Tomas Tranströmer

I drive through the village at night, the houses rise up —
The rising pricks of paled stars,
The cusped, august showers —
How scrubbed the wool sky looks
Flecked and descending upon shingles flecked
And reflected with light
This is what I want
From the world:
To be able to be quiet while not
The maple leaves hang —
The leaves
And animal shadows cast off the low branches hang
Over the plain, wet ground,
Over the concrete and late scents
Of exhaust and primrose spilt
Over the lawns
But the moon!,
Our blared bowl of milk!
What else can I do
But hope to find there’s something else
But hope?

Printed from Cerise Press:

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