Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Sonnet #262

We never know what will be kept of us

Locked away in memories of those we know
We don't own the memory of us, don't own
The way people talk about the best of us --

The snout butterfly, late summer rains rise strong
So swarms scurry to seek nectar and appropriate leaves
The hackberry's a weed tree, I kill all I recieve
A fast-growing thing, thank god snouts devour on
And on, great numbers accumulating, press towards
horizons and winds, grackles scatter among the drifts
Snatching between cars that smash through herds
Each fluttering tries to carry hope, tries to sift
the sky itself for signs of nectar, the proper tree;
Some live, some die as food or badly - whatever will be

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