"The Surrealist's Sonnet"
When I was a child I kill moths
Staring into open fire and open dreams
Looking for something to rule me or ruin me
The tinted window is out of reach
To service the watch to service the watchman
There is no summerising over it
When I was a man I thought of remembrance
Far too young to forget
So I went to the star for answers
Not realizing they were dead
So many choices so few options
I hope there is a cross on your collar
Out of touch out of reach
Like lukewarm miniature Swiss absinthe
By Cecil Low
Fur Dr Mittler
February 2024
Dr Mittler: I do not endorse it.
comet- nether and zither.
Dr Mittler: I am flattered,
comet- it is faltered.
Icewine: separate frame.
