sonnet 1

a sonnet never speaks a song so clearly as a dream

a widow’d peak, central speak the dragon’s old grim rhyme

opera trance and wicked stance of sickles in the yard.

in back room wicker dances, witches incant vacant lots,

doctors, lost, without whiskey to cure their hogwarts—

pickled toad stew, monkey brains, and cornmeal gruel

make the seven sins into sister twins, hybrid gems

of the fourth realm, divine, coyote wind chime machine.

in daylight, heaven rejects the notion of self wareful

in exchange for copper break lights—who is in handcuffs? 

a string of conscious nods pass between two neighbors,

benign, to their own host benefit—r’member, to prelude

your statements with relevant information.  the language

of my youth is not portuguese, italian, aurora borealis.