Gedicht
Philip Gross
Yalta, 1945
Yalta, 1945
Yalta, 1945
Jigging the text, the torn tracts, till they slotand settle, the inscribers of the coming age
lean back from the table. One folds a page
down, crisply. There’ll be i’s to dot
etcetera after lunch. Black pips of shot
in purple pigeon breasts (bred in the cage
for shotgun wars the house-guests wage)
are spat discreetly out, bones picked, and what
shudders of moon cross the lawn, what steel
zinging of bats as they stuka the lake . . . ?
The spoils of peace: the drafts and maps discarded,
numbers estimated who will wake to feel
the margins closing, run, sleep rough, take
their chance, ford rivers; the bridges are guarded.
© 2009, Philip Gross
From: The Water Table
Publisher: Bloodaxe, Tarset
Published with kind permission of the author and Bloodaxe.
From: The Water Table
Publisher: Bloodaxe, Tarset
Gedichten
Gedichten van Philip Gross
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Yalta, 1945
Jigging the text, the torn tracts, till they slotand settle, the inscribers of the coming age
lean back from the table. One folds a page
down, crisply. There’ll be i’s to dot
etcetera after lunch. Black pips of shot
in purple pigeon breasts (bred in the cage
for shotgun wars the house-guests wage)
are spat discreetly out, bones picked, and what
shudders of moon cross the lawn, what steel
zinging of bats as they stuka the lake . . . ?
The spoils of peace: the drafts and maps discarded,
numbers estimated who will wake to feel
the margins closing, run, sleep rough, take
their chance, ford rivers; the bridges are guarded.
From: The Water Table
Published with kind permission of the author and Bloodaxe.
Yalta, 1945
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