Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Sonnet #96

They cut flutes from stems of papaya leaves

The children do it with a knife, they cut
the yellow stalk, slice a line and heave
their breath down through the hole, but
the song is not melodious, a thin and sharp
sound, like a deformed owl, a tiny loon
The old folk say a flimsy, worthless carp
of a man, a man without sand, just boom
They call him the papaya flute man, hollow
A bellowing strange, a fool's buffoon.

Cut the man from the stem of his fellows
Cut away the green of him, slice his grain
Blow him out, and hear a horn of toy raids
Remember these baubles are not born but made

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