Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 14, 2021

Sonnet #335

How strange to carve a hole in space

And cover over the hole, and call it

Home, to decorate our little bits

Of endless cosmos, and hide our face

From trees and wind and the wet air

That rises up from the grass in Spring

Where we will desperately open things

Up to let the wind blow through, how dare

Anyone come into this hole unwelcomed

When everything is free, floating in the sky

That never ends, and our tiny hollows honed

Against the weather that gave birth to you and I

How strange a thing a house can be

To live and love and grow and build and die

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