Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 15, 2020

Sonnet #290

At evening twilight, walking, I must wonder how 
much of all the grass I see is living, how much a ghost
We do not seek the ghosts of tiny things, no spectral host
Made up of mayflies, tree stumps, blades of grass, flow
of ancient rivers dwindling underground, but the memory
of cities, the echo of that energy, rises greater than man
from space, we see the oldest roads in desert sands 
We see the outline of the walls of other centuries
empires lost to stories, I question whether houses
of all I see, if they have not more than this burned down
And what I see is an illusion of a place, where ghost houses
stand, ghost cities hold a shape in time, and remember how
these things used to be: All the residents are ghosts, all espoused
of their vast kingdoms come from will to remain - illusions, proud

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