Monday, January 5, 2009

Pulp Poem of the Week

The night was like purple ink.
And it was as though the bottle
that held the ink
had been smashed against the sky
by some insurgent celestial accountant.
For heaven was pitted with its tiny,
twinkling particles of broken glass.
And there seemed to be no one
there to sweep them up.
God's office was closed for the night.

Cornell Woolrich

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