Short Love Sonnets
23.
Submerged under morning moisture
a molten silver,
under a crystal umbrella, a color,
silver, by the silver, a yellow-lined
spittlebug plays an oboe,
the music crawls in a hole to weep,
this silver has a silver color
like no silver color
in the entire world,
in the entire cosmos.
This silver, this unique silver,
is trying to tell me something,
something deeper than
all our known profundity,
something opaque.
The silver only speak silver,
I only understand words.
Duane Locke
Posted over on The Red Ceilings
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