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rejectomorph

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Rushed [Aug. 20th, 2017|08:57 pm]
rejectomorph
Today's skirmish with summer was not especially bloody, and it looks as though the season is in retreat. It may make a few more charges in the weeks to come, but the fight is gradually going out of it. Even the chance of a thunderstorm on Tuesday is down to ten percent. It won't be long before there will be days as mild as spring, but smelling of autumn. The leaves the heat has killed already litter the yard, and under the jasmine where the night breezes pile them and the irrigation water hastens their decay, it already smells like October.

Shopping took a big enough chunk out of the day that I feel pressed for time. I believe English people will murder one another on television at nine o'clock, or at least in the time slot that begins then, so I must abandon any attempt at along entry. Maybe next week I'll be able to shop on Friday and have more time on Sunday. Today is done for.




Sunday Verse



Heat


by H. D.


O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air—
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut through the heat—
plow through it
turning it on either side
of your path.

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