Monday, November 9, 2009

Pulp Poem of the Week



His eyes were dimming crescents,
straining upward into the starred
night sky,
as if trying to make out, to visualize,
some phantom face that no one else
could see.
And what is love anyway but the
unattainable,
the reaching out toward an illusion?

Cornell Woolrich
Rendezvous in Black
1948

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