Showing posts from September, 2020

Photograph from September 11

BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKAThey jumped from the burning floors—one, two, a few more,higher, lower.The photograph halted them in life,and now keeps them  above the earth toward the earth.Each is still complete,with a particular faceand blood well hidden.

A Color of the Sky

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,driving over the hills from work.There are the dark parts on the road                     when you pass through clumps of wood   and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,   but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologizefor being so boring at dinner last night,but can I really promise not to be that way again?   And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing   in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leavesare full of infant chlorophyll,   the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,   and on the highway overpass,the only metaphysical vandal in America has written   MEMORY LOVES TIMEin big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.