TIN CAN SONNET
This trickle, a wearing of sorts (as streams
coat surface) -- had wished to dig into rocks,
to disclose shapes and shadows, conjure themes ...
but can't. Better: call tin cans poemy clocks --
since timekeeping needs decay to be true.
Apparent and motley disrepair sheds
light across continuum's point of view --
we see bittersweet blemishes. Rot spreads,
its bolt mangled by our sight into slow
second-hand tracing; new powdered grime
undone by a touch and blanked; aimless snow
launched from windshield lattice. No end to time --
shield and guise flux to rust. We wane, stumble,
cease. Imminent promontories crumble.
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