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Again [Oct. 19th, 2014|07:49 pm]
A pleasant evening has ended, night absorbing the forest into an indistinct mass. The nearby trees still have sky to define their outlines, and even the details of branches, twigs, leaf clusters here and there. The things that go away when light leaves them are still there, as far as we know, but the moments they occupied are truly gone.

The dusk is gone, and the air it held has moved on, brushing the trees on its way. The essential air is of little substance, and the passing moment only a quality of light or a fleeting movement of that air. The immobile boles and heavy branches occupy the darkness which they have joined, and the softer leaves whisper to the passing air that follows all that has gone before. The twigs bend toward the past, lifted by the rising leaves. I send words into the dark, knowing they will never find the lost dusk.

Sunday Verse


by Carl Phillips

Trapped bee at the glass.

A window.

Instinct is different from
to understand.

Is not the same.

The window is not the light
it fills with— has
been filling with—

What the bee ascends to.

Is full with.

To ascend.
To have been foiled.
To be consistent.

Instinct making
its own equations.

The window is not, for the bee, a window.

Is a form of resistance

not understood
because not understandable,
not in terms

of reason.
A felt force.

A force entirely:

And I said Yes. That it
had been

like that. Resistance
at first, the light— And then resistance

as only one of the light's more difficult

and defining features.