Sonnet #10

By Carrie A. Purcell

A sonnet is a little song in a little stanza, that is, a little room.
What happens between the walls and on the walls, well,
that’s anybody’s business.  Let’s get past the looming
separation.  Here are pictures set in surveying cells
at edges of word worlds. Here are tunes wombing their ways
to sea by granite mazes.  Let’s graze the tips of our fingers across wrists.
Let’s listen for this to crop up again after we go gray.
After all, nothing’s new under our young sun; we still run to kiss
or kill each other, knelling the coming numbness each year with cake.
Promenade with limeade across that fretful stage.   Prime
your photo receptors with memories for your foremothers’ sake.
Your way in and way out are already decided; the question for your time-
            being being if your cell, set by other cells, will make a home.
            The question is the color of your music before you are laid in loam.