Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 15, 2020

Sonnet #295

The trail I ran went under highways, so
I heard the echo of the cars and saw the pillars there
So like cathedrals, these hidden palaces, bare
Of all but holiest of things, stripped back to
Just the drainage water, the algae in the water
The desiccated wrecks of trash and clothes and blown in things
That echo back to life’s use, ghostly things
For ghostly places, where lost priests wander
The stripped back essence of all holy art
I am here, desperately here, this spray paint spectacle
The way the columns hold the sky apart
Where the muscles of the world, the ventricles
Flow so fast, and in those shadows hearts

Echo, lost souls, lost souls, angels of drained potentials

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