rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Persisting

The sun emerged for a while today, but was not strong enough to warm the air. Brightness intensified the colors of the fallen leaves, but they remained sodden. Tonight frost will eat away at them, and tomorrow their decay will scent the chill air. It will be like that for days, and then another storm will come. December will be another November, January most likely another December. Here I am counting the days until spring, and the entire winter lies between now and then. The furnace clicks on, burning money.



Sunday Verse



With Letter And Clock

by Paul Celan


Wax,
to seal what's unwritten
that guessed
your name,
that riddles
your name.

You're coming down, are you, downdrifting light?

Fingers, waxen as well,
drawn through
strange and aching rings.
Fingertips melted away.

You're coming, downdrifting light?

Clock's honeycomb empty of time,
bees myriad bridelike,
ready for flight.

Come, downdrifting light.


—translated by John Falstiner
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