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Alban Arthur [Dec. 21st, 2008|08:38 pm]
rejectomorph
All afternoon, slow rain falls. Patches of sun-starved grass emerge as the icy whiteness which has covered them for days dissolves. The gray sky bringing rain is almost as good as sun. It liberates the landscape, piece by piece, revealing gravel and mud, sodden weeds, dead leaves and bits of twig— all the detritus of autumn. It livens the air, fills it with song, freshens it to a wintry scent, this anticipation of spring. I listen to the snow-melt trickle where it emerges from the downspout. The winter solstice has arrived with vernal sounds.



Sunday Verse


Coleman Valley Road


by Gerald Stern


This is where I had my sheep vision,
in the brown grass, under the stars.
I sat there shivering, fumbling with my paper,
losing tobacco. I was a spark at the most,
handing on to my glasses, trying to hide
from the wind. This is how I bent

my head between my knees, the channels and veins
pumping wildly, one leg freezing, one leg
on fire. That is the saxophone
and those are the cymbals; when it gets up here
the roar of the waves is only a humming, a movement
back and forth, some sloshing we get used to.

That is my cello music and those are my headlights
making tunnels in the grass; those are
the clouds going down and those are the cliffs going out.
I am reaching up. I think I have
a carp's face, I have a round nose
and a large red eye and a ragged white mustache.
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