Domestic Sonnet II
From The Familiarity
Domestic Sonnet II
Her body wakes and with it a hum.
I sit, elbow–knee bent
writing against paper grain
stink bugs emerge this time of year
in tawny marmorations
leaving romance knuckle balling.
If I craft a sonnet will persistent
chemicals end with a simple refrain?
There’s a poem by Brautigan
about a catfish he loved so dear
moving blind at the bottom of a mere
and if I were to live life in stink bug forms
I’d stay in walls releasing small alarms
and your loneliness would eventually fade.
