Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Sonnet #42

I don't believe a person can be born again

The trees can. Take a clipping, dip in hormone
Place in soil, soon the roots descend
The leaves push through, the tree, reborn,
Is ready to rise above the fields anew
Anywhere new. Underground the roots
Recognize themself, mine together through
each other, rise one soul, two shoots

You cannot yet take fingers of flesh
Place them in a womb, expect new life
No false watery grave, no ceremonial mesh
No battlefield or epiphanic strife

We remain our old selves, harder, scarred;
With some survival, maybe riper for the churchyard 

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