rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Thin clouds thin more where the moon shines, and become like a ghost of fog rising to heaven. The moonlight is made milky, as are the white flowers when they catch its borrowed rays. The dark pines merely swallow it, graves of light that blot out what stars they can and point at the others, their very looming a challenge. But I like the shapes of pines at night. There is something robust about them, defiant of the darkness they embody. They have swallowed light days on end, year after year, using it to pull earth upward with their yearning for sky. All that energy they flaunt at the dead moon which merely reflects what they can capture for themselves, to fill the vacant air with songs each time it moves.

Sunday Verse


by Ander Monson

This is what you got me up for? Cats-
in-the-backyard bump & grind? Hurrah for light
on cats and motion, drowsy thoughts. Hurrah
for your sister Harriet who keeps on

dumping boys like she was born to lose them.
Hurrah for my thoughts of her as she mists
the winter defrost glass on the slow drive
back from another relationship's dull

bomb and bottom-out. Wake me when it's really
morning, not this half-hearted pre-tender
pre-dawn light, not this dry ice mist, not this
scent of mint that's all over everything

like a sauce or like a net of thoughts
and thoroughfares, not this old bone Harriet
dream of leaving, not this painful-looking
cat sex mess, not this essayistic
voyeuristic watching out the window
for Icarus to wing-beat out this fog
and call it morning, call it passing glance.


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