Stunned by the lamp above my desk, a moth
landed on my glasses. I snapped my head
so sharply I hurt my neck and stopped work
on a small poem that didn't matter. The moth
was black with a smudge of iridescent green
underneath its thorax and orange head.
I was watching my neighbor's grandson toddle around
with an orange pail upended on his head
and bump into the parked car and laugh,
into the door and laugh and fall and laugh,
learning the hard and opaque by seeing nothing
and loving the feel of it, understanding nothing
of how serious comedy is, how odd to laugh.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.