rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Last Night

Streams of light drench the street, the trees, the vacant facades. The moon is a fat egg, approaching roundness. I place the hose to send an arcing stream of water into the bed of sourgrass, and I watch the two streams mingle. Everywhere it falls but on the water, the moonlight is placid, illuminating a static world. On the gurgling stream it plays and flashes, reveals transient facets, mirrors its source in motile distortions. It is the fluid sun I see, twice removed, spilling into the dark soil, vanishing into roots.

Sunday Verse


by Octavio Paz

The cold lips of the night
utter a word
column of grief
no word but stone
no stone but shadow
vaporous thoughts
through my vaporous lips real water
word of truth
reason behind my errors
If it is death only through that do I live
if it is solitude I speak in serving it
It is memory and I remember nothing
I do not know what it says and I trust myself to it
how to know oneself living
how to forget one's knowing
Time that half-opens the eyelids
and sees us, letting itself be seen

-translated by Charles Tomlinson


  • Reset Thirty-Six, Day Seven

    Tuesday I managed to get the laundry done at last. For a couple of weeks either my schedule was off or the laundry room was already in use, and I was…

  • Reset Thirty-Six, Day Six

    Monday. Slept, woke up, ate something, took the wheelie bin out to the street, couldn't do laundry because the machine was in use, slept some more.…

  • Reset Thirty-Six, Day Five

    I don't recall much of Sunday other than that the sleep came in two chunks again, one by day and one by night, and the nocturnal sleep ended just a…

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.