rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Seven, Day Thirty-Three

The final sleep of 2022 ended about ten o'clock in the evening, which was quite some time after it began, when there was still some light in the winter sky. I decided to treat it like morning, even though it was dinner time. There was orange juice and then tea and a donut, and dinner was put off until after midnight. The mini-metropolis, despite some lingering rain clouds, caught a glimpse of the moon as midnight approached and the pace of explosions accelerated. Their number indicated the likelihood of more than a few parties going on, which will most likely bring about a considerable uptick in cases of respiratory illness over the next couple of weeks. As a wiseass once said, it ain't over till it's over, and it ain't over.

What is over is 2022, and so far I don't miss it. We'll see how the next few weeks go. Today is so far going kind of weird. I expected to be asleep by now, but things. Today is supposed to be sunny, which will give everything a chance to dry out. It didn't rain much here, but some parts of the state (San Francisco in particular got a real soaking. Rain returns Monday. I might be around for it.

Sunday Verse

After the Last Bulletins

by Richard Wilbur

After the last bulletins the windows darken
And the whole city founders readily and deep,
Sliding on all its pillows
To the thronged Atlantis of personal sleep,

And the wind rises. The wind rises and bowls
The day’s litter of news in the alleys. Trash
Tears itself on the railings,
Soars and falls with a soft crash,

Tumbles and soars again. Unruly flights
Scamper the park, and taking a statue for dead
Strike at the positive eyes,
Batter and flap the stolid head

And scratch the noble name. In empty lots
Our journals spiral in a fierce noyade
Of all we thought to think,
Or caught in corners cramp and wad

And twist our words. And some from gutters flail
Their tatters at the tired patrolman’s feet,
Like all that fisted snow
That cried beside his long retreat

Damn you! damn you! to the emperor’s horse’s heels.
Oh none too soon through the air white and dry
Will the clear announcer’s voice
Beat like a dove, and you and I

From the heart’s anarch and responsible town
Return by subway-mouth to life again,
Bearing the morning papers,
And cross the park where saintlike men,

White and absorbed, with stick and bag remove
The litter of the night, and footsteps rouse
With confident morning sound
The songbirds in the public boughs.