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Thursday, November 9, 2023

Construct, Sonnet #614

A dreamed-of tern feathered bright tin,

With feet of forks and spoons, and eyes

Of rapidly blinking buttons

Flapping in a nacreous sky . . .

So briefly, yet half-remembered.

Is it different than sand hill cranes

Flying tight skeins, or tiny birds

Fighting at your feeder, insane,

Almost: hungry, or is it greed?

All is constructed by what feeds

The integers of counting we’s,

Assembled — one, one — instantly,

As we try to comprehend dreams —

And all else— as more than just seen.