rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


I can't believe how freaking cold it got tonight! The clouds went away and took what little warmth there had been to the day with them. To keep Sluggo happy, I don't have the heat on in my room, but even with the chill in here (he clumsily typed with his numb fingers) it is a shock when I go outdoors. If this were February, I might expect it to feel as though I had opened really big refrigerator every time I went outside, but it's only November . . . isn't it? I haven't been in a coma for two or three months, have I? Come to think of it, that might not be a bad idea. I'd extend it to April, at least ,though.

I certainly don't feel like wasting any of my precious energy doing anything as unimportant as thinking under these conditions. So, in lieu of an actual post, I present more of someone else's work:


by Richard Wilbur

There is a poignancy in all things clear,
In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning.
Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water
We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

And feel so when the snow for all its softness
Tumbles in adamant forms, turning and turning
Its perfect faces, littering on our sight
The heirs and types of timeless dynasties.

In pine-woods once that huge precision of leaves
Amazed my eyes and closed them down a dream.
I lost to mind the usual southern river,
Mud, mist, plushy sound of the oar,

And pondering north through lifted veils of gulls,
Through sharpening calls, and blue clearings of steam,
I came and anchored by a fabulous town
Immaculate, high, and never found before.

This was the town of my mind's exacted vision
Where truths fell from the bells like a jackpot of dimes,
And the people's voices, carrying over the water,
Sang in the ear as clear and sweet as birds.

But this was Thule of the mind's worst vanity;
Nor could I tell the burden of those clear chimes;
And the fog fell, and the stainless voices faded;
I had not understood their lovely words.

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