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rejectomorph

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Tripped the Light [Sep. 18th, 2011|07:49 pm]
rejectomorph
This afternoon's light would have been the perfect light to preserve, if light could be preserved. It fell perfectly, caught the late summer green of trees and grass and bushes, the deep gray of asphalt and lighter grey of concrete, the walls and trim of houses, the gleaming mysteries windows make of inside and outside, the fluid mysteries passing cars make, the massive and the intricate, the still and the animated, and flashed it all everywhere.

It has all dissipated now, nothing remains but vague shapes and the silhouettes of trees and wires etched on darkening sky. It's the sky the light returned to, where the last of it is carrying the dimming scene away. All that perfect light, scattering, blending a world of scenes into a blur, thinning it, washing it all out until all detail is lost and there is nothing but a shimmer to fall on distant worlds, where there is no one to see.




Sunday Verse



Let's Move All Things (September)


by Denver Butson


everyday sir etceteras the wind whispers that it recognizes us
the trees hold out their handshakes the stars twirl around the sky
like bubbles in a windowsill glass everyday trains go through tunnels
like fingers through rings like scarves through a magician’s fist
birds lift up like stricken punctuation marks

sir everyday I take my fistful of minutes and bet it on the wrong horse

if I weren’t so scattered now sir I’d run around the block
in my new sneakers I’d show everybody how high I can jump
I’d learn to whistle all over again and I’d whistle
even though I can’t really whistle

everyday sir the sun tells us what the moon did last night
how she sat in front of a mirror
lamenting the dissolution of herself

and we retrace our steps looking for something we’ve lost
even though we can’t remember what it is we once had

we try to recall forgotten phone numbers
so we can dial them and hear voices
that belong to faces in photographs
we can no longer identify

I don’t know about you sir
but I wouldn’t mind a good fistfight about now
maybe a natural disaster to shake things up
I don’t know about you
but sometimes it all seems like squealing car tires
with no crash at the end

we wait with faces squinched up
shoulders raised – for what?

I don’t know sir.

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