Reset Forty-One, Day Five
May. 29th, 2022 04:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSo there was a nap again, and I didn't resist it, as it was Saturday and there seemed to be nothing hanging over my head, no undone tasks that could be accomplished, nothing for which there was no excuse, and I could just let myself be tired and indulge myself. It was still light when the nap ended, and I went out to the mailbox, and the mild dusk felt like something I'd just recalled, but couldn't identify. It felt like something done, something that could be put away, neat and tidy and waiting for a time when it would be needed again, or even better, never.
Outside it has grown quite cool, and the traffic has died down, and the sound of the mini-metropolis is barely noticeable, though its lights still obscure the stars. Random thoughts come and go, like the vague breezes that stir the leaves, but nothing remains for long. It's almost as though the nap never ended, and I'm wandering about in some quiet dream, not quite real. For the time being, I'm not thinking much of anything. It's a relief. The inside of my head is almost as quiet as the sleeping world outside, where the only passersby are fluttering moths around the porchlight, who vanish when I turn it off. I should go back to sleep. Maybe I can dream of being a moth.
Sunday Verse
by A.F. Moritz
A place belongs to the one who has most deeply
loved it, they said, has hoped in it beyond
its self-corruption. The land, people, the city
is his if his nights are for recalling it,
calling it in tears of aloneness and amazed
thanksgiving: that luck let him kiss it in his childhood,
that it grew into him, is him, that he still wants
to have it, save it, he wonders what it knows
tonight, right now, how it is with that place,
if it's happy, dying, dead. So he went back
carrying his book of that city: a great book,
yet only a dim sketch of his memory,
though in its pages, closed and dark, the alleys
of cracked windows and lintels, and children's paths
through towering weeds behind the empty stores
and under sycamores down to the river, burn
with bright emptiness that in the city were full
discarded bottles, concrete crumbs, and rusted
shavings in broken light. He did not have
a dollar in that place. He could not find
a door to open. He did not know a soul.
Outside it has grown quite cool, and the traffic has died down, and the sound of the mini-metropolis is barely noticeable, though its lights still obscure the stars. Random thoughts come and go, like the vague breezes that stir the leaves, but nothing remains for long. It's almost as though the nap never ended, and I'm wandering about in some quiet dream, not quite real. For the time being, I'm not thinking much of anything. It's a relief. The inside of my head is almost as quiet as the sleeping world outside, where the only passersby are fluttering moths around the porchlight, who vanish when I turn it off. I should go back to sleep. Maybe I can dream of being a moth.
Sunday Verse
Place
by A.F. Moritz
A place belongs to the one who has most deeply
loved it, they said, has hoped in it beyond
its self-corruption. The land, people, the city
is his if his nights are for recalling it,
calling it in tears of aloneness and amazed
thanksgiving: that luck let him kiss it in his childhood,
that it grew into him, is him, that he still wants
to have it, save it, he wonders what it knows
tonight, right now, how it is with that place,
if it's happy, dying, dead. So he went back
carrying his book of that city: a great book,
yet only a dim sketch of his memory,
though in its pages, closed and dark, the alleys
of cracked windows and lintels, and children's paths
through towering weeds behind the empty stores
and under sycamores down to the river, burn
with bright emptiness that in the city were full
discarded bottles, concrete crumbs, and rusted
shavings in broken light. He did not have
a dollar in that place. He could not find
a door to open. He did not know a soul.
