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rejectomorph

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Sing [Oct. 2nd, 2011|08:35 pm]
rejectomorph
The cicadas probably don't know that they will die soon. Tonight they are singing as though the world will never change; the nights will always be mild and brief, the earth always full of day's warmth, the grass always thick and vibrating to their buzz. They have no idea how October can chill, how its sky can gray and release floods, or how it slides toward winter and ice. All they know is summer's fevered pulse— thier own music.

Cicadas are blissfully free of long memory. For them, life is all spring and summer, until the unexpected suddenly arrives. There is no last year, no next year, but only this one long season of singing. A few weeks from now, I'll find their cadavers clogging the drain in the sink on my back porch, but for now their chorus fills the night, as though the springtime frogs, who vanished when summer's rising heat dried the ponds and shrank the streams, had never been, nor met their inexorable fate.




Sunday Verse



The Magic of Cinema


by Denver Butson


the projectionist put the second reel on backwards
and then fell asleep
and now birds
are flying upside down
and backwards
across what must have once been
the white sky
it all makes sense though somehow
at midnight
in this abandoned movie house
with the projectionist
sure that his life is falling apart
and nobody
except the homely ticket girl
out there in the dark
weeping
in the last row.

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