No, it wasn't the same as my canyon-outlook,
But its stickiest fragment, a toe wiggle or a cough,
I pocketed. I remember
Drawing on red feathers the lost receipts
Of thrifty photographs, now adrift
In which direction? Isn't anyone
At the hole for us? We match well.
Thoughts resume their art. Autumn rakes
Are knee-deep. My son writes,
"not yet." Much interference is dialed-in
As the eavesdropper knows, but my own feeling
Is better viewed from a cliff.
Why no respite from outsider predictions,
From these dandelion idiots? This passion for blinds?
Coincidentally the hailstones, falling like crumbs,
Will always aggressively ask the window for seconds.
Not the case with my catalog picture of you
Under the mistletoe. Bundled there
Are whodunits and nibbles of cookie—
Lumpy potatoes, lumps of pillow for one head,
My years of random slurring and chemistry.
Don't run from the season premier
(However I turn is soon to be done),
Or the pebbles cavorting in your wake.
They spit on the suitable offer, the current
Beneath cordial like blankets quilted under picnics,
Wailing buckets about has-been coupons expired,
In lesser venues and crowds—so we may never get to check out
On a day like today, or yesterday.
His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He preferred
to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam. He never
claimed to be a god. But then, he never claimed not to be a god. Circum-
stances being what they were, neither admission could be of any benefit.
Silence, though, could. It was in the days of the rains that their prayers
went up, not from the fingering of knotted prayer cords or the spinning of
prayer wheels, but from the great pray-machine in the monastery of Ratri,
goddess of the Night. The high-frequency prayers were directed upward through
the atmosphere and out beyond it, passing into that golden cloud called the
Bridge of the Gods, which circles the entire world, is seen as a bronze
rainbow at night and is the place where the red sun becomes orange at midday.
Some of the monks doubted the orthodoxy of this prayer technique...
-- Roger Zelazny, "Lord of Light"
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