rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Sunset was supposed to arrive about two minutes later today than it did yesterday, but I didn't notice the difference. All I noticed was the scattered bits of cloud turning red and mauve, then going gray, and a few stars appearing. It grew too cold outdoors for my comfort, and I have grown to prefer comfort over such things as stars and the chilly evenings of those days when fall is giving way to winter.

It wasn't long ago that I would watch a December night arrive from the first faint gathering of dusk under the densest stands of trees until full darkness had revealed the blaze of stars wheeling across the light-drained sky, but it seems ages past. Longer spans of time diminish the pleasure in shorter ones, or at least change the pleasures we draw from them. These days I like the heat rising from the floor grates, and soft upholstery for my backside rather than cold ground under my feet. A few stars or moonlit clouds can't compensate for shivering or for aches in joints. December is what it was, but I am not.

Sunday Verse

At the Gym

by Mark Doty

This salt-stain spot
marks the place where men
lay down their heads,
back to the bench,

and hoist nothing
that need be lifted
but some burden they've chosen
this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove
of it leaving, collectively,
this sign of where we've been:
shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl
where we push something
unyielding skyward,
gaining some power

at least over flesh,
which goads with desire,
and terrifies with frailty.
Who could say who's

added his heat to the nimbus
of our intent, here where
we make ourselves:
something difficult

lifted, pressed or curled,
Power over beauty,
power over power!
Though there's something more

tender, beneath our vanity,
our will to become objects
of desire: we sweat the mark
of our presence onto the cloth.

Here is some halo
the living made together.


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