Experiment

Attempting the use of the "pre" tag. It's too hot to write a real entry anyway. Sluggo will soon shut down. I don't know if this will look right in every browser. Computers is weird.

LATE AT NIGHT . . .

by Pierre Reverdy


The color which night decomposes
The table where they sit
In its glass chimney
          The lamp is a heart emptying itself
It is another year
     A new wrinkle
Would you have thought of it
          The window throws a blue square
The door is more familiar
     A separation
          Remorse and crime
Goodby I am falling
Gently bending arms take me
Out of the corner of my eye I can see them all drinking
          I don't dare move
They sit there
               The table is round
And so is my memory
I remember everybody
Even those who are gone

Anvil Days

Not even the deepest woodland shade provides adequate respite from the heat. I lurk in the house all afternoon, windows closed and drapes drawn, conserving as much of the morning coolness as possible. Should I venture out for a moment, I find the day still, the sky free of birds. In the evening, the heat which has gathered in the attic begins to seep through the insulation and penetrate the rooms. Then I turn on the air conditioner, and the welcome chill spreads through the stuffy rooms. Thus, even by full night, when I go outdoors I am struck by the stultifying atmosphere. This is not yet the hottest summer I have endured in this place, but it is coming closer to being so each day. As I pass through the dim rooms lit only by the glare of sun through the drapes, my thoughts are of cooling sea breezes and open views, and of night, for which I eagerly wait.