Pages

Thursday, June 8, 2023

New, Sonnet #604

Now is perpetually new:

My hands in dishwater soap,

Or two hawks locked in mews

In air that inhales, exhales hope —

Nothing is always out of scale,

Nor is every metaphor stale.

There’s no trick to all of this,

No existential treatise.

A moment is a moment’s kiss

We perpetually miss.

The dishes are clean and dried,

No matter how hard we tried

To ignore them in their dirty sink:

Little that we knew we now think.