rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Sinking Passing By

Vaporous nocturnal clouds gather, scatter the declining moonlight, halo red rising Mars. A breeze leaves the mountains, drawn by dead sunheat the dusty valley floor has released, which also rises like Mars, but lightless, an exhalation of exhausted sleep. The mountain air drawn by the void its rising leaves is cool, pine-scented, filled with tremors of leaves as it passes this place where the whispers of the ponderosas are like the rumor of dreams to come. Too brief a respite, night wanes, its departure announced by raucous jays who spread from tree to tree news of the sun's threat as it prepares to crown the eastern ridges with fire.

Sunday Verse


by Wallace Stevens

The grass is in seed. The young birds are flying.
Yet the house is not built, not even begun.

The vetch has turned purple. But where is the bride?
It is easy to say to those bidden- but where,

Where, butcher, seducer, bloodman, reveller,
Where is sun and music and highest heaven's lust,

For which more than any words cries deeplier?
This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out

Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon
To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.

She must come now. The grass is in seed and high.
Come now. Those to be born have need

Of the bride, love being a birth, have need to see
And to touch her, have need to say to her,

"The fly on the rose prevents us, O season
Excelling summer, ghost of fragrance falling

On dung." Come now, pearled and pasted, bloomy-leafed,
While the domes resound with chant involving chant.


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