rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Each Night More Brief

The June-pale night glows, each form outlined and crisp, the air iridescent with both moonlight and skylight, and the crickets never cease to sound their calls. A far off dog barks. I am reminded of the foxes I no longer hear, of the years they roamed, when more trees made the nights darker, more mysterious, and the stars were more numerous. The passage of a car along the highway is marked by the flash of its headlights illuminating branches and leaves. As the hum of its engine vanishes, the first bird of morning breaks into exuberant song, so loudly that only a moment passes before other birds join in. The night seems barely to have begun before it is washed by new light.

Sunday Verse

Solitary Man Discovered in a Field of Daisies

by Gilbert Sorrentino

The sound of weeping is preferable
to absolutely nothing the man says
but nothing hears him saying so
or weeping These yellow and white

daisies get on his nerves Set the scene
with some care the usual meadow torpid
and baking in the sun that is of course
yellow and white and the daisies too

And now an odd thing occurs
where the yellow and white meet
both are lost or not lost but make
a new color that is light

The man is not cheered by this
nor does he stop his weeping O woe
O God help me he cries into the silence
that is white and yellow light

Daisies their unassailable pure form
mime of the sun the clear yellow
and rigid white the light they make
the products of endless decay

they stir to their silent rhythm
no one has ever moved or changed them
not even Wordsworth in despondency
They are yellow and white to earth's last day


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