rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Flown

I hear wind in the canyon, but here the night air remains still. This afternoon I saw small flies— not house flies, but a smaller, less robust sort, who usually arrive in spring. One is now lying dead in the sink on the back porch. I think they only live a day or two, anyway. The fly had no idea it was here out of season. It hatched into a mild world, and lived its brief life in a pleasant atmosphere. Maybe it left eggs somewhere, to hatch when the real spring arrives. But how it darted and whirled while the sunny afternoon passed! And here I am listening to the unfelt night wind.



Sunday Verse


The Windows


by Guillaume Apollinaire


All the yellow dies from red to green
Where parakeets sing in the first woods
Pihi giblets
There is a poem to make about the bird with just one wing
We'll phone it in
Gigantic trauma
Brings tears to my eyes
Behold a young pretty girl amidst the youth of Turin
The poor boy sneezed in his white cravat
I'll raise the curtain
And voila the opening window
Spiders when my hands wove the light
Beauty pallor fathomless flowers
We'll fail at shuteye
We'll start over at midnight
If you've got the time you've got the freedom
Winkles codfish polysuns and sundown urchins
A yellow pair of old boots in front of the window

Towers
Towers are the streets
Wells
Wells are plazas
Wells
Hollow trees harbor vagabond half-breeds
Mulattoes sing mournfully
To noisy mulattoes
And the wa-wa goose trumpets northward
Where raccoon hunters
Scrape pelts
Vancouver
Glittery diamond
Where snow-white trains and nightlife fly from winter
O Paris
The yellow dies from red to green
Paris Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the Antilles
The window opens like an orange
Handsome sunshine food

—translated by Donald Revell
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