rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The trees are receding into night, blurring together as shadowy masses as the sky dims. A lot of my memories are like that now. Sometimes I have a hard time telling one from another. In a while it will be hard to tell that the trees are trees, and not just darkness. I suppose memories will get like that, too. Right now it's hard to recall what happened this afternoon, probably because none of it was significant. There were the stores, where I bought very little, and the roads between the stores, which were much the same as always. It's all pretty vague.

Right now all I can think is that I want something cold to drink. Later, I believe English people will murder one another on television. Other than that I might as well still be sleeping. Portia would disagree, but only because if I were still sleeping she would not yet have been fed, and she doesn't like not to be fed. She herself sleeps most of the time. I wonder if I could arrange to be the cat for a change and her the human, if my life would really change all that much. Well, I wouldn't get any beer, and that would be a big change, but other than that.

It's almost time to start making a dent in this week's food supply. Maybe I'll remember that. Maybe I won't. First, that cold drink. It's still hot in here.

Sunday Verse


by Anne Sexton

A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.


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