Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Sonnet #165

Every spring, when blooms return, I think

This might be last, perhaps the storm
perhaps a cell, falling star, a dread worm;
car accident three blocks away, sink
the teeth of one car into another's cheek, devour
the passenger, damage the drivers, rushing a light
at a left turn, nothing will ever make it all right
but every spring the flowers swell and pour
And push so hard against the dry and cold
The green leaves grow, the day is finally ours
And in the rush, the wreck, a flash too bold
The sirens come too late, the mourning hours
among the flowers, a man just 24 years old
Every flower smells so sweet, every note sours

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