Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Tuesday, August 4, 2020

Sonnet #319

The squirrel thirsts enough to chew upon

The thickest pomegranate rinds, to drink
The tartest, not yet sweet, the hardest sink
Of teeth gets but a drop, and throw them down
After just a few swift chews, and in these ruins
Broken ornaments and desiccation of the flesh
I harvest losses off the ground, and press
The fruit, or shake it, just to see what drew in
Where the skin was broken, all those jewels
My poor pink quartz, my gemstones of mourning
All that glittering, and that squirrel, desperate fool
Will be trapped in this place a season, hoarding
All the treasures of this fence-line, the cool
Days come; to eat the pomegranate seeds, in this burning

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