rejectomorph | Lately

When curtains pale with dawn's premonition, I often wonder what's become of the night. Didn't I intend this or that task to be done? Wasn't there a plan? The long trail of years is littered with the husks of such. Yet, after learning from experience how books go unread and words remain empty promises, still I am surprised by the inexorable turning of the earth. At these times, my capacity for delusion amazes me.

In lieu of an actual post --

The Puritans

by Richard Wilbur

Sidling upon the river, the white boat
Has volleyed with its cannon all the morning,
Shaken the shore towns like a judgment warning,
Telling the palsied water its demand
That the crime come to the top again, and float,
That the sunk murder rise to the light and land.

Blam. In the noon's perfected brilliance burn
Brief blooms of flame, which soil away in smoke;
And down below, where slowed concussion broke
The umber stroll of waters, water-dust
Dreamily powders up, and serves to turn
The river surface to a cloudy rust.

Down from his bridge the river captain cries
To fire again.
they make the cannon sound;
But none of them would wish the murder found,
Nor wish in other manner to atone
Than booming at their midnight crime, which lies
Rotting the river, weighted with a stone.