Memory Clifford Brown

This - not blue, it is - cool color.
This - the color in the middle of the Atlantic
February. Not important, you dressed:
you still bare back on the ice.

This - not just a piece of ice, one of the ice floes,
but in fact objections heat.
She is alone in the ocean, and you're the one
on it; and singing as the fall pipe mercury.

It's not genuine voice in the dark sore,
but the finger froze to sharp, stripped gloves;
and drop, gleaming, floats in the zenith,
to look at the world from that of the retina.

This - not just the retina, it - brocade with a spark,
A new musical notation stars and stripes.
Floe melts, like a beam spot,
drifting to the wings black, where the hidden terminal.

February 1993

Most visited Brodsky's poetry


All poetry (content alphabetically)
Rating
( No ratings yet )
Share to friends
Joseph Brodsky
Leave a Reply