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as of now, i have a whole one poem that i am happy with.  maybe more to come.

a sonnet.   by Tony Pellum.

Encased in sooted monuments beneath

(with afternoons and coffeespoons on knees)

the golden crust of dirt from autumn leaf,

contains the lithograph of what's conceived.

Each canvassed moment I can only see

(secretly hoping you have seen the same)

below apathetic activity-

searching for one more of you in still-frame.

You'll hear my heart as the cycle completes

(freezing, I stare at the clock on the wall)

how can this fanciful orbit repeat

if 4 of 2 has not been passed at all?

Encased in plastic, cardboard, bubble wrap--

Stagnant mirage-- In nothing, time has passed.