| Arid |
[Feb. 20th, 2012|07:50 am]
rejectomorph
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Another Sunday dithered away, another month well on its way to oblivion, and the half-brown grass is still half brown, the chilled night still merely chilled. There's little more than a month left of winter, and no sign of winter is in sight but the bare branches of the trees, as bony as they've been for months.
So there might be a drizzle tomorrow, so what? The mountains are as bare of snow as the trees are of leaves. This evening the air smelled of pine, but all that did was remind me that summer is lurking out there, waiting to burst into flames. With no winter, how will there be a spring? We'll probably go from chill to swelter overnight, and then sweat until October. Do not want!
Sunday Verse
The Poem You Asked For
by Larry Levis
My poem would eat nothing.
I tried giving it water
but it said no,
worrying me.
Day after day,
I held it up to the light,
turning it over,
but it only pressed its lips
more tightly together.
It grew sullen, like a toad
through with being teased.
I offered it money,
my clothes, my car with a full tank.
But the poem stared at the floor.
Finally I cupped it in
my hands, and carried it gently
out into the soft air, into the
evening traffic, wondering how
to end things between us.
For now it had begun breathing,
putting on more and
more hard rings of flesh.
And the poem demanded the food,
it drank up all the water,
beat me and took my money,
tore the faded clothes
off my back,
said Shit,
and walked slowly away,
slicking its hair down.
Said it was going
over to your place.
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