Knock back the catch on the spooled cord, and let fly!
Skyward my blithe port de bras, and skyward flings
Anything you give me: flaming haybales,
Boulders, wet mounds of dung, groundling stuff
Which airborne turns unearthly beauty, unbodied grace
For which the battlement's too mean a target.
See how, shot, that clatter of tacks glints
Like stars above the bonfires, how that vat of rendered fat
Anoints the fortress walls with burning.
See how the corpses of the hostile dead
Hang angelic in the middle air. And how, angelic,
They fall, as if hungering for the earth
And its sweet demolishings. Holy the fall.
I hymn it with my arm.
TODAY IN SLATE
Here’s Where We Stand With Ebola
Even experienced international disaster responders are shocked at how bad it’s gotten.
Why Are Lighter-Skinned Latinos and Asians More Likely to Vote Republican?
A Woman Who Escaped the Extreme Babymaking Christian Fundamentalism of Quiverfull
Subprime Loans Are Back
And believe it or not, that’s a good thing.
It Is Very Stupid to Compare Hope Solo to Ray Rice
In Defense of HR
Startups and small businesses shouldn’t skip over a human resources department.