rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

The Cooler

The air coming out of the vent at my feet is rapidly making them toasty. My hands are still cold from the chilly air outdoors where I was watching the sky-- that one with all the bright stars and the patches of rumpled clouds. The plunging temperature will make more leaves change color. They, however, will turn red or yellow, while my hands, had they been exposed much longer, would have turned blue. Ah, colorful autumn! A delightful season, very bad for my dexterity. Gradually, the feeling returns to my digits. Now I can do this:



Sunday Verse


This Solitude Of Cataracts


by Wallace Stevens


He never felt twice the same about the flecked river,
Which kept flowing and never the same way twice, flowing

Through many places, as if it stood still in one,
Fixed like a lake on which the wild ducks fluttered,

Ruffling its common reflections, thought-like Monadnicks.
There seemed to be an apostrophe that was not spoken.

There was so much that was real that was not real at all.
He wanted to feel the same way over and over.

He wanted the river to go on flowing the same way,
To keep flowing. He wanted to walk beside it,

Under the buttonwoods, beneath a moon nailed fast.
He wanted his heart to stop beating and his mind to rest

In a permanent realization, without any wild ducks
Or mountains that were not mountains, just to know how it would be,

Just to know how it would feel, released from destruction,
To be a bronze man breathing under archaic lapis

Without the oscillations of planetary pass-pass,
Breathing his bronzen breath at the azury center of time.
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