Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 15, 2020

Sonnet #291

Things feel wrong all the time, like we
Walked down a road and got lost there
We pretend we are not lost, we see
The way things are like this, the most

We do about this is we say to cowboy up
To strap your big person pants on and work
Until you can’t even think about how we struck
A bargain to begin with that began with so much hurt

I am waiting for my son to wake alone
I can hear the wind blowing outside;
I remember how the parasitic wasps’ bones
Are built upon the agony of a moth child,

When the fig tree beckons, I savor wasps’ work
The tree envelopes, too, becomes the shape it hurts.

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