rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Deserted

Cold like a door slammed on an empty room. Cold like a torn page blowing along a deserted road. Cold like the thought of abandoned houses. Effing cold! This is going to take some getting used to, if it lasts. Already there are more clouds forming. The thin moon wears a dark halo. I can easily imagine snow. Too soon, too soon!



Sunday Verse


The Prediction


by Mark Strand


That night the moon drifted over the pond,
turning the water to milk, and under
the boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
a young woman walked, and for an instant

the future came to her:
rain falling on her husband's grave, rain falling
on the lawns of her children, her own mouth
filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,

a man in her room writing a poem, the moon drifting into it,
a woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death,
thinking of him thinking of her, and the wind rising
and taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.
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