Atavistic Sonnet Atavistic Sonnet
Shadow of the gull on the airport wall, lunging as the fuselage vaults above the meadow. Hollow in the cornrow where the hobo slept, then a backhoe filling up the furrow. Misery of clocks in neon glare, whereabouts of warblers and island foxes, an old flame googled from the dead letter office, simple as the still-warm bench at dusk. Typing or sewing, or bringing down a fever through a length of knotted string and a rusted staple gun. Here comes the tattooed witch with her drum while the royals wait by the limousine grinning. Shadow of the gull on the airport wall, shallows in the stairs where we fell and stepped, hollow in the cornrow where the hobo slept, a backhoe filling the furrow.