Monthly Archives: October 2018

Sonnet #267

We could take it all, someday, you understand

It is possible that man and woman mine it all

And nothing’s left in the ground, and drills fall

silent and all the rock down to the lava lands

have nothing left to take — We live in a finite world

It only feels infinite because we are far more finite

We couldn’t possibly make our way among the firmament

We will birth, love, death in only corners, gather pearls

Where we may, and never know the cost of what we take

There is a limit to the soil, a limit to the oil, a limit

One day, we’ll scrape it up, and that’s all we’ll take

Because there’ll be nothing left but climate

Burning off what’s left of us, the oceans boil to lakes

of fire, and the fever breaks; this place is finite.

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Sonnet #266

I take great pride in little things, like this:

Any time of day, any time of year, I go
into my little southern garden I know
that there will be butterflies, their whisper kiss
alighting on the flowers, there, planted
to call them down from the clouds —
the bees are always there — I’m proud
to say they bustle in the vines and shrubs
while I refrain from laying poisons down;
The work, when I am getting to it, shove
a few words down, a few more, grown
from meat in great discomfort, grubs
gnawing and i yank and pull and throw
I know someday they’ll be beautiful ones

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Sonnet #265

the stories we tell to our children
are the stories we tell to the future
the stories we tell to each other
are the stories we tell to the days olden
It sounds like perhaps I have this reversed
But, listen, when we speak of the past
to the children, we’re telling the stories that last
about ourselves, about life’s trajected, projected
And we mean them to carry down the line
When I tell stories to my peers, I say
I tell you what, man, I say do you find
that we are alike? Do you remember the way
the same way I remember the way, I’m tryin’
to be sure to take the shape of myself, have my say

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Sonnet #264

Even as I know the dreams we’re sold are broken,

I dream the dreams I’m taught. The big house, the big,

big kitchen, with the big island and the big, big, big

yard far avenues beyond the reach of subway tokens

My dreams of what it means to be a man break

The world that will be here when I am dead

Our children will stand in ruined suburbs, having spread

our ashes in the fall; whisper curses to our love, how we take

More than we give to the ground, how we

Break more than we heal, how they must

come after us and mine the tombs of cities, how we

hoarded all our failed ease in buried heaps, how they must

look into the sky we burnt for our dreams, how we

Make money and call it love, how they must

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Sonnet #263

These men who think they rule the world unto dust,
Do they truly believe their children’s children
And their children’s children’s children will bend
Enough guards to their service, hold against rust
In compounds and bunkers and underwater kingdoms
While all the rest of us are burning and drowning
And all the moneys of the world will have meaning
When there are no countries left to honor income?

The wild places of the world will avenge upon
The ones who believe so much in science and technology
That they don’t believe they have to stop open
-ing the tombs of time and burning all the geologies
The men who think they rule the world yawn
Where teeth rise in the shadows of hollow apologies.

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