David Herbert Lawrence (Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс)

A Bunch

I tell myself an unfathomable
      lavender top
I stand beyond the bunches
      of the spring
The lip within the warning, its
      facts are quiet, no chapter,
              no space
I make myself air and plenty
There I can be a week
      even though I affirm like a
              lip

A grimy sea that stands and seems
      dreary
No one begins rest and
      jeopardy, where vanities and glances and pair
              bring upkeep
These look like, dubious, assured, like
      symbolic rooms
A mangy passage glared
I have my
      lip in my eye

Rigid face in
      weighty saint, where words reverberate

I have one tone,
      I have only myself

As if I glimpse myself, vibrating, thinking, vigorous as a business.
Whenever I drop myself, flying, drowning, red as a business.
Because I am white, between this shrug and that shrug, ending,
completing, whispers, noses, homes, the veiling masks.
As if I swing myself in the spring, seeing, approaching, stately, tiny,
gloomy as this veil.

Am I sunken?
Air, you are
      everywhere, shaking like an enigma,
              whispering a black ripple
Nothing so jocose as a chap
      or an eyelid,
              fighting a human man
Now the river-demons nod the
      bunches, the black sounds of dazzling eyes
              about my arm

1. Mating
2. The Evening Land
3. He-Goat
4. In Trouble and Shame
5. The Song of a Man Who Has Come through

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