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Thursday, March 15, 2018

Mount Pinatubo, Sonnet #396






















I lived near the shadow
Of Mount Pinatubo
Before it blew its top,
Awakening to stop
The sky with hot ashes,
Scar itself with gashes.
In days a typhoon flood
Buried the land in mud.

Sleep is not a muscle,
Though it stretches, tightens,
Can toss around Pluto
Like blood a corpuscle. 
Dream-bursted, it frightens
Like a blown volcano.