rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Reset Eight, Day Nine

Not too sure what I did Saturday, other than enjoy the fact that it wasn't very hot yet. It's going to be much hotter today. 87 degrees. I won't like it. But it's cool tonight, the air stirred by soft breezes that rustle the leaves and send brief chills down my neck. Earlier I heard a cricket, but not the sort that should be chirping this time of year. It was one of the small crickets that makes a buzzing sound. Those aren't supposed to appear until the latter part of summer. Another thing that has gone wrong with this year.

Restless this afternoon, I thought about going to the Goodwill store. Those books haunt my imagination. What if someone has donated the complete poems of William Carlos Williams? What if there is some Raymond Chandler sitting on a shelf? What if (very unlikely) there is a volume of Yvor Winters, or of Kenneth Rexroth's translations? They won't be there long. Someone not me will get them. And what if there is something I never knew I wanted? I will never find out I wanted it! The thought of an undiscovered unknown desire is unbearable. I'll try not to think about it.

There is definitely something I was supposed to do that I've forgotten to do. It doesn't make sense that I would remember forgetting something I haven't yet remembered, but there it is. I can't shake the feeling. Something important is going undone, and I have no idea what it is. I wonder if I'll ever find out?

Sunday Verse

The End

by Arkaye Kierulf

You must have felt it working in your bones. It's begun: The papers
print the same stories over and over, and have you checked

the obituaries? Already, nobody remembers

how their first kiss went. The phone keeps ringing and ringing
when nobody's home. Between our skins is a necessary friction

that separates us forever. Look: space. Somewhere, a lost key. It's begun:
What was once the wind or an echo or an accidental sweetness

is now a bird outside your window singing with perfect pitch and timbre
the song that's on all our tongues, cut. What pulls from the earth to exist

the earth pulls back into itself: this and this and this is mine. You own nothing.
Our bodies breathe to a rhythm, to one direction, to one regression. It's begun:

The truth stares us down like an owl: There's no place to go: You own nothing.

In the dark you hear movement – a squeak, a hiding. The heart opens, closes, opens.


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