Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Sonnet #91

Glass is a liquid that appears so solid,
But to the trees outside the window who
are so old and gently wake and sleep, it
looks like a flood among the eaves, although
The rippling never seems to end, the droop
that descends and descends, weight collapsing
into weight, glass is living, glass is a goop
Translucent, so slowly it congeals, our draping
cloths and blinds conceal it, if we took a picture
every day for three hundred years, we'd see
The tide falling down, the thinning, the sure
certainty of melting into the ground in the
quick flipping of the animation. Our windows are
Simply the perspective of solidity, our frame
To all the whole solid universe:quaking plain

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