rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

July Lament

For me, the stultifying air is not conducive to delight. Four in the morning. I am picturing the sunlight already slamming its withering rays onto the plains, preparing to scale the Rockies and rush across the gasping deserts, all to the end of attacking me. Yesterday's heat hangs around in the house like a persistent guest at a party that has lasted too long. Tomorrow is as unwelcome, but the continuous moonlight indicates that the sun has not gone out and that dawn will almost certainly arrive. I go outside for some fresh air and find it still scented with pine sweat. I listen for a while to a cricket which is chirping from the bed of sourgrass. Once again, I find myself desiring to breathe an exotic air, perhaps in some sea-verged garden where brightly colored frogs splash the surfaces of glistening ponds and make the moon's reflection ripple. I would like to be sung to sleep by nightingales and wake to soft rain. Instead, I will hear screeching blue jays and endure a sultry sleep until the blazing light and scorching atmosphere force me to rise. Happy Independence Day.

Sunday Verse
The Ghost Ship

by Mark Strand

Through the crowded street
It floats,

Its vague
Tonnage like wind.

It glides
Through the sadness

Of slums
To the outlying fields.

Now by an ox,

Now by a Windmill,
It moves.

At night like a dream

Of death,
It cannot be heard;

Under the stars
It steals.

Its crew
And passengers stare;

Whiter than bone,
Their eyes

Do not
Turn or close.

My cat just killed a bird. The victim's fellows throng about the offending feline, screeching in vain protest. The small, gray corpse lies between the recumbent cat's paws, still and silent. I won't watch her eat it. I'll have bad dreams, anyway.

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