rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


I find a spot where, a hundred feet off, there are two pines between myself and the patch of cloud-mottled sky where the moon has lately risen. This morning other pines shaded the back yard for hours, and it seemed the sun would never reach the leaf-strewn lawn. The brilliance behind them made it impossible to look at them. The pines back-lit by the moon I can stare at. I can see the pairing of delicacy and strength in the form and void of them, and the tapestry of glowing clouds beyond, and the indistinct form of the moon, the emerging curve of it perfect.

I don't even mind that the air is chilly enough that I shiver. It is still and fresh and the night is quiet. I gaze at the trees and watch the slow climb of the moon, branch by branch, until it has nearly freed itself. Then the clouds thicken and the black lace of the trees grows blacker and the moon dims. Perhaps it will brighten again once it has climbed higher, or perhaps the clouds will continue to thicken and hide it all night. I'll be back to see, as long as I remain awake. I don't want to miss a wonder should one occur.

Sunday Verse

Flash Photography

by Eric Gamalinda

This could have been someone
who died of lightning long ago:
easy to imagine how the skies
broke and the fulguration
like a skull exploding. I know
only what I see with my eyes.

Think of it as a current
impervious to the ordinary run
of lives, a source of ancient mystery
but meaningless and inadvertent
now, a whole world spun
of rumor, of perplexity.

Chooses what it likes to recall.
Selects not with love,
but light. Does its harm
in darkness, in the thrall

of poisons. May be portraits of,
still lives with, soft porn.
Or more urgent: as though to say
all that we've lost
still persist in their absence,
and the photograph is a way
of not seeing, and the most
we can hope for is that the lens,

this indifferent apparatus,
somehow borrows the light
of those who gave meaning
to the darkness in us,
and the faculty of sight
dispels the terrifying

realization that we are alone,
that the world forgets.
All told, not absence but memory
takes what it can,
and we pay our debts
by remembering completely.


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