{"id":1055,"date":"2011-03-13T01:06:36","date_gmt":"2011-03-13T01:06:36","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1055"},"modified":"2011-03-13T01:06:36","modified_gmt":"2011-03-13T01:06:36","slug":"c-derick-varn-311","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/c-derick-varn-311\/","title":{"rendered":"C. Derick Varn, 3\/11"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #000000;\"><strong>Afterimage<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #000000;\">I often talk to a friend about love,<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> my love of her, of ropes, of cedars<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> waning into the slush of unfroze<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> snow, the way air impacts the trees<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> leaves them winter-thin and wispy<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> like a cool emptiness.\u00a0 There is a<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> code flashing against the night,<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> brown-throated wrens hum against<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> the wind.\u00a0\u00a0 Gray sky fragments<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> in the lovers\u2019 orbits, and I talk<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> to my friend about all these<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> things, chilling myself into a<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> happier glow. It is the wind<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> off of icing junipers to denotes<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> the demarcation between<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> myself and others.\u00a0 If I talked<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> too much of love, I\u2019d freeze<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> along the beachhead. If I drew<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> too many conclusions, I think<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> life was a wet spot in drying<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> sheets. The wind ululates<span style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"><br \/>\n<\/span>against the window. There<\/span><br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #000000;\"> is nothing more to say.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Afterimage I often talk to a friend about love, my love of her, of ropes, of cedars waning into the slush of unfroze snow, the way air impacts the trees leaves them winter-thin and wispy like a cool emptiness.\u00a0 There is a code flashing against the night, brown-throated wrens hum against the wind.\u00a0\u00a0 Gray sky [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1055","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v24.2 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>C. 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