and of course she can
by that lovely little path
that winds through
the olive orchard
Marianne Boruch
THE BLUE·BLACK LIGHT
A child with a gun
is parting the bushes next to the house
his foot dropping steadily
over stones, over darkened grass.
Breathing is difficult as the moment
nears
I put down my book
in this blue-black light, as if water
could or needed to be
read. What was I thinking:
remote
possible.
I know that
stirring, how quick it happens
now the child
slipping out of the leaves
not a shadow at all
but a thought
slipping out of its mind
sucking up the room
as I sit swearing I
haven't heard a human voice for years.
The trees wild, small winds
ruthless in their courage
