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First Full Moon of Autumn [Oct. 4th, 2009|10:53 pm]
The air is as crisp as a fall apple, but not sweet. Fireplaces have been lit and night smells of smoke. Fallen leaves lie silent since the evening breeze stilled. Lit by the full moon, they make the ground seem tattered. The year wears away like old lace, dusty and yellowed with age. Nobody to mend it.

Sunday Verse

Ash Ode

by Dean Young

When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks
shouting your name then realizing it wasn't
you but some alarmed pretender, I went on
running, shouting now into the sky,
continuing your fame and luster. Since I've
been incinerated, I've oft returned to this thought,
that all things loved are pursued and never caught,
even as you slept beside me you were flying off.
At least what's never had can't be lost, the sieve
of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone,
wedding ring, a single repeated dream,
a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions
of the sea written in the desert, your broken
umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.


[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2009-10-05 04:51 pm (UTC)
what a poignant poem. thanks for that, and for the image of old lace wearing away.
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2009-10-06 06:47 am (UTC)
I've heard Young often compared to John Ashbery, but much of his work reminds me more of French poets like Mallarme and Reverdy.
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