Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Friday, January 18, 2019

Sonnet #284

I take great comfort in your indifference, fair reader,
How I am shivering as much to myself as to you,
And nothing that I bluster will last much longer
Than the wind it took to breathe these words through

The letters on this page will keep for no one
The letters on my tombstone will moss and fade
The only future spirit of me is not the glory of the blade
Or the wisdom of the pen, only the echo of what I've sewn

It will not be attributed to me, this echo, but it moves
where my hands move, following the spirit of the hawks
That hover where all the birdfeeders are, the waves
that crash the shellfish, crush them open and seagulls walk
among the shells devouring; all the brave
stumble, no courage here, just wind in the cornstalks

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