rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Displaced

Today my shopping trip turned pear shaped, and I hadn't even bought any pears! The stores were both out of a number of things I'd intended to buy, at least some of which I'll have to fetch later in the week. Luckily I have an appointment with the chiropractor Tuesday, so I can revisit the stores then and won't have to make a special trip.

But while the shelves were empty of many goods I desired, the store itself was full of people who looked displaced. I'm guessing they were those who missed their regular shopping times because they had forgotten to set their clocks forward. They stood in the aisles gazing vacantly at shelves, or wandered aimlessly plucking down one item or another and then returning it. It was exhausting to watch, and even more exhausting to muddle through the maundering crowd.

Tonight, repeated yawns make my jaw creak. Portia is fascinated, as though my gaping mouth might harbor prey. No luck, cat. It's only the empty day I swallowed coming back. Between yawns my eyes droop. In cahoots with the yawns, they want to shut and make me sleep. Something in me must believe the lying clock, but I pay no heed. I intend to stay awake and greet the rain that is due. The day brought nothing but sprinkles, and sprinkles do not satisfy my desire for rain. I thirst on behalf of the earth. The frogs understand. They will not sleep either. I hear them vibrating the darkness, making night tremble with anticipation.




Sunday Verse



Dandelions


by Craig Raine


"and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence"
— George Eliot, Middlemarch



Dead dandelions, bald as drumsticks,
swaying by the roadside

like Hare Krishna pilgrims
bowing to the Juggernaut.

They have given up everything.
Gold gone and their silver gone,

humbled with dust, hollow,
their milky bodies tan

to the colour of annas.
The wind changes their identity:

slender Giacomettis, Doré's convicts,
Rodin's burghers of Calais

with five bowed heads
and the weight of serrated keys . . .

They wither into mystery, waiting
to find out why they are,

patiently, before nirvana
when the rain comes down like vitriol.
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 0 comments