This Is Not a Sonnet


Sigh through bands of light.
Smile in the words of Berrigan
spun out on the freeway like
a comic strip. The hour of irrationality
overcomes the valley until
the valley and reticence by this
movement reappears in a web.
In spite of reference to self,
pieces scattered like blisters, a mutter
mangling a flying thing, and closely
protruding roughshod in a vase
to devour ample consideration,
pollution in the wrinkles,
the West Virginia Panhandle to stifle the advance.

-r. miller


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