Sonnet #349
This is my mountaintop, where all clamber stops
And up in the wind, the beat never drops - we'll howl
like the animals at kings and cops, we'll scowl
when the wind comes strong enough to make us hop
it's cold and lonely here, where we are ever righteous
and just down the mountain, there, i see the world fantastic
all the muddling and puddling and funneling and plastic
and it's climbing up, just throw things in the crevice
let them blow until the clutter sputters where boots scoot
the bits around, I'm shouting down and down, but wind
will never let me go, and everything blows, shoots
in the gusts into corners and crushed rocks and sins
are coming up, litter and dropped dogshit bags scoot,
Soda bottles, water bottles, my screaming does nothing