Sonnet
I see flames of the desert, turning young,
Turning a page, past the three-year crease,
I hear silence raging from naked tongues,
Hollow music from polished Indian teeth.
And I find a world that’s seldom seen,
I hear the drenched summon ring,
Sullen promenade, once green, green,
The murmuring trumpet chorus sings.
I run through hard-rain, and so I find,
Ol’ Masters, boring their death masks,
Clawing, gnawing at flourish gone blind,
Unhinged and confined in thorny grasps.
And it’s all the while I have to think
‘Bout that honeycomb seep o’er the brink.
Luka Vukos,
2014.