Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Sonnet #152

oh hard bitter rue, what became of you?

dishwater green, and dun-colored yellow blooms
aromatic oils to kill your neighbors for elbow room
left a rash when anyone tried to walk near you

eventually little golden pimples emerged as infections
they turned black and pulsated, living, growing
Until the little eggshell cracks, exposing
The servants of the rue, upon close inspection

The tiny things cleared out the foliage, made room
For new growth, and ate away other infections
The bigger, the prettier, striped golden white and blue
Ate skins when they cracked to make new skins
Chrysalis, and patience for the fruit of the rue:
Swallowtails soaring like velvet paintings that flew

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