Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Sonnet #261

the obscurity of my work is a warm blanket
I don’t know how it came to me or when it goes
But here is it, upon my shoulders this throw
Of void between the work I do and the thanks for it

I leave these messages in empty places, ships
In bottles, floating on the sea and if the glass
Shatters I like to think the ship sails past
The battering, and for a while, before it slips

I hope. Without acclaim as a virtue chased
All work exists in my workshop, where I
Know Best what woods to use, what place
To leave it on the shore, where noise rise
And take what I give to the world, to be played
Where I can’t hear the song, my warm happy lie

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