rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

The Mere Cool

It would have been a nice day for April. Spiky daffodil shoots are shooting a few feet from where the azaleas died when winter briefly shut down premature spring. Maybe next time it will be time for the daffodils to die. And when the spurge laurel is ready to scent the air, will more cold arrive and suppress the perfume?

This ought to be dead of winter, redeemed by slightly longer evenings that hint of spring's approach. Instead, the blue jays chatter all afternoon, and the fluffy, rainless clouds drift across a bright blue sky. When night falls, the un-hazed crescent moon is bright enough to reveal the iris blossoms along the fence. Day after day, an absence of gray. It makes me feel strangely displaced. Who broke the world's clock?




Sunday Verse



To Myself


by Franz Wright


You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I'm the interminable fields you can't see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin

to cough I won't cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything's going to be fine

I will whisper.
It won't always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich.

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