Sonnet #369

 When I write, a single line and then another

Becomes the sound becomes the word becomes

A picture forms that’s worth a thousand words,

And pictures painted each a single thread runs

In single lines clumped in bunches, makes

The world more beautifully rendered reveals

As much from what is not than what it takes

From pigment fragments, crushed ochres; reels

Of film a frame a frame a frame a single word

Eventually spoken, and we in our cities mowing lines

Into the ground and laying bricks of work

Each one of us our little lifeline bending and entwined

From far enough away and deep enough inside

We are bound together into a single gorgeous line