rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Afternoon sky of uniform gray managed to drip soft rain for half an hour. The acorn woodpeckers didn't bother to take refuge on the dry side of the utility pole. I saw their flights reflected where the pavement got wet enough to mirror the sky. The clouds, weakening, let moonlight through once night fell. The rain had been unexpected, which made its early end less disappointing. But the day had been so cool that, when the moon appeared, there remained upon the street wet patches in which its light was caught, and there I found it floating underfoot, perhaps reflected again in my eyes for any small nocturnal creature who might have been watching. What reflection of myself might have been in their eyes I'd never have seen.

Sunday Verse

Anatomy of Monotony

by Wallace Stevens


If from the earth we came, it was an earth
That bore us as a part of all the things
It breeds and that was lewder than it is.
Our nature is her nature. Hence it comes,
Since by our nature we grow old, earth grows
The same. We parallel the mother’s death.
She walks an autumn ampler than the wind
Cries up for us and colder than the frost
Pricks in our spirits at the summer's end,
And over the bare spaces of our skies
She sees a barer sky that does not bend.


The body walks forth naked in the sun
And, out of tenderness or grief, the sun
Gives out comfort, so that other bodies come,
Twinning our phantasy and our device,
And apt in versatile motion, touch and sound
To make the body covetous in desire
Of the still finer, more implacable chords.
So be it. Yet the spaciousness and light
In which the body walks and is deceived,
Falls from that fatal and that barer sky,
And this the spirit sees and is aggrieved.

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