"Weevils," he cries. "The flour! Full of weevils!"
And that's hardly the worst.
There is a moon in that sky too
burning round and fierce above the stars.
The model posing as the nun
has left one of her dark brown eyes open
and light pours through it now
like a stream of milk.
George Bradley
AUBADE
Once in a great while, you might open your eyes
Into bright sunlight and think you are somewhere else.
Say Sardegna in '76, early one morning in Olbia–
The sun is red and huge, rising over the bay,
And the day is already warm; the town is weathered,
Worn to the colors of a pastel sketch, like the eyes
Of a man who has been drunk most of his life–
Bleached by the sun, or washed out by memory? There
Is no way of knowing, and of course you can never go back.
To speak the same words, to stand the same ground
Will not suffice, and the thought itself accomplishes
Nothing. All of it, Olbia, that sun, yourself one morning,
Is whirling away like the speed of light, and you
Are borne into a life irretrievably infused with a reality
Beyond recall, so that there is no telling how you arrived
In the sunshine, confused, waking as from dreams.
