SONNET: there is not truth: there are only birds

there is not truth: there are only birds
who nestle in the thick branches and leaves
while the sunlight twists and the breezes heave—
there are no keen inklings in our words;
if marble daffodils haunt me in my sleep
the swirling clouds shift until they wrap
themselves around the falsehood's immense trap.
there are no wells of christ where i shall creep
and where my mother becomes a dire seam
that holds it all as one below the mind
as mortars churn and pestles grind
the sweeten the air and add turmeric to my dreams

there is no nothing: no chaos no knows
no way to count the vines of drooping willows

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