Sunday, September 08, 2013

V. 2, #163: September 8, 2013

What is it, but the insect pulse and thrum
of Summer, beating in your ears like blood?
The hot wind pushing through the trees, to come
upon you like wave. There in the mud

below the leaking tap, jut from the brick
and keeping time with every wasted drop,
a wood frog nestles, comfortable and slick.
and sings his satisfaction, while me mop

our brows and watch the violet skyscape fade
to purple, blue, and black, just like a bruise.
A few peekaboo stars slip past the clouds
then disappear again, just to amuse
themselves at our plain bafflement. Dark shrouds
the sky. The moon cuts through it like a blade.

1 comment:

Scott said...

I used a similar closing on a poem I like much more than this one, at around the same point in the original project. That one had a strong tone, however, and a clear theme, two things this one might lack. But that's what I've got today.

I wonder if there are any parallels between some of the volume 1 sonnets and their volume 2 counterparts? I've never gone back to check. Maybe one day, when I'm really bored, I will. :)