Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Sonnet #14

We never speak about the things that make us real:
The diadems of dreams, the wind through hair
at night when we wake from a dream falling fear
Confusion in the dark, the empty night feel
The dread of what we do not know that steals
And our consciousness is centered in the tear
Our knots, obsidian stones, a boiling prayer
Hope when it comes like a catherine wheel
Hope when it leaps in the dark like a child
pick me up pick me up i want to be held
Hope sucking stuck minerally molasses kiss
Hope please not now, please not for a while
Hope let love come from the gods of the field
We never speak about this, never ever speak this

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