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rejectomorph

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Limits [Jul. 6th, 2014|11:50 pm]
rejectomorph
Once the house gets cooler I'm apt to fall asleep. Maybe I'll dream about the breeze I wish would blow, or water flowing in the streams that have dried up far too soon this year. Maybe I'll dream about once having dozed on a beach, protected from the fierce sun by the shade of an oversized umbrella. Maybe I'll dream about the deserted suburban streets I used to wander by night many summers past.

Things no longer here probably haunt my dreams, but when I wake the dreams are no longer here (but in fragments, like the nearly forgotten moments that sometimes reach the surface of my mind even when I'm awake) so I can't be sure. If they do, they must be stronger, so much more vivid, in dreams— or I hope they are. If they are there then maybe someday I'll remember more than fragments of a dream, recognize something in it, be granted some realization.

Tonight the waxing moon has become slightly gibbous and lends the trees a faint sheen. The past is illuminated so by my memory— vague and suggestive, tantalizing. It seems as though something is there in the dimness, something that might be important, though what could be there that was not there by day and thus known to me? Does some lost world almost penetrate night's veil and leave some trace that is sensed rather than seen? Are nights and dreams and the past full of clues I missed, and continue to miss?

Maybe I know when I sleep, but waiting for sleep I know nothing but that I am enveloped in mystery. If the breeze I wish would blow would blow, the leaves would stir and whisper. I imagine I lean close and hear a message, but I can't imagine what the message would be.




Sunday Verse



Turtle


by Kay Ryan


Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
She can ill afford the chances she must take
In rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
A packing-case places, and almost any slope
Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
She's often stuck up to the axle on her way
To something edible. With everything optimal,
She skirts the ditch which would convert
Her shell into a serving dish. She lives
Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
Will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
The sport of truly chastened things.

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