Reset Thirty-Nine, Day Eight

[rejectomorph]

Somehow kept losing track of time all day Saturday. I kept thinking it was earlier than it was, suffering repeated surprises. Now look here the done day of things undone, and the passing night rushed, I watch the moon vanish behind the tall fence, and hear the rumble of a train passing the town, and the rustling leaves responding to a rising wind. It all feels like a twisted variant of deja vu: It's never been now before, but it's strangely familiar. I should not have stayed up this late. I should never have imagined I'd be safe here in my own nocturnal thoughts.




Sunday Verse

Echo Room

by John Burnside


All night, the long-eared bats
flicker from tree to tree
through the scent of rain;

The luckiest survive for fifteen years,
quick, in the swim of the air
or skimming the earth

Where cats from the village
pluck them entire from the darkness.

To the Ancient Chinese
they meant luck;
to the Flemish, affection;

But here, what they most resemble
is desire:

All skitter and echo,
gathering, then forgetting.