rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Sprung

The poppies thrive, but so do the foxtails. April's air is lilac-scented, and carries drifting strands of black widow silk. Birds sing all day and mosquitoes buzz when evening comes. Transitions from waking to sleep and sleep to waking are unwanted intrusions, spoiling temporary perfection. All the contrast and transience of spring makes it impossible to retain either melancholy or delight.

I imagine myself a bird about to smack myself silly against a window where the clearest path appeared to invite me. I picture myself at the last minute realizing my mistake, too late. This is the conceit by which my imagination tries to warn me, but I know the caution will be wasted. That window gets me every time. Oh, it just did.




Sunday Verse



The Great Western Plains


by Hart Crane


The little voices of the prairie dogs
Are tireless . . .
They will give three hurrahs
Alike to stage, equestrian, and pullman,
And all unstingingly as to the moon.

And Fifi's bows and poodle ease
Whirl by them centred on the lap
Of Lottie Honeydew, movie queen,
Toward lawyers and Nevada.

And how much more they cannot see!
Alas, there is so little time,
The world moves by so fast these days!
Burrowing in silk is not their way —
And yet they know the tomahawk.

Indeed, old memories come back to life;
Pathetic yelps have sometimes greeted
Noses pressed against the glass.

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