rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Away

It must have been the stuffiness of the house, windows closed and the heat on, which put me to sleep before I could post this morning. The cloudy sky had cleared again and the air turned cold. I looked wide awake at the stars and the moonlight and then went indoors and promptly crashed on the couch, waking two hours later to a pink dawn but yet unable to keep my eyes open. Now that I'm finally awake, I feel as though I had a hangover. It's terrible to feel as though you have a hangover when you know you didn't even have the fun of getting drunk. Maybe I'll lay in a stock of booze for the winter, just in case this become a habit.

The partly clear sky of morning had been covered by clouds once again by the time I woke with a vague memory of sunlit dreams. The world and I are out of sync again.



Sunday Verse


The Voice


by Theodore Roethke


One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.

And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.

That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.

Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air--
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
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