Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 14, 2021

Sonnet #332

I listen close to Spring, I do, but I

can’t muster all I need to bluster

Into leaf, I wonder where the winter

Went when I could rest a little,


Could reach deep underground

And push my narrow fingers through the dust

Below the autumn leaves, where beetles rust

Among grimalkin bones and all the lucky coins unfound

Where lost receipts and take out boxes smash

Into the stones we’ve thrown, the worms

Will duel for palaces in all this trash

And I, restless as I rest, stick my fingers fast

To any source of goodness to my form

No sunlight here, no bleaching winds, only the dead and grass

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