I see some things straight on or one,
Others flower, flake and fracture,
Like cracked ice and cloud-splintered sun.
We don’t even guess to be sure
Sight isn’t feeling or idea
(Pointed pointless logorrhea),
Content with being what we are:
A peggy leg, bunches of grape,
An unwashed cup and rotting pears,
The glass rings on an ancient bar,
Manipulations of an ape,
Uncountable senseless errors.
Be calm. It’s only verity,
Its grapefulness and pearity.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
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