from a fragment of Pasternak

It’s midday of the world. Where
are your eyes — reedbrown, lit
without sun, with clouds, with snow
white caught in the blond —
O how can the world be so quiet
so alive, yet still — what? waiting?
But for what, when clouds whisper,
when waves barely lap the shore,
when white-cheeked ducks dive
in the brutal black water as though
it were sky, blue, sunfilled, joy —
where are your eyes? It’s the midday
of the world — and everything is waiting.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s