photo by author.

the mold.

sonnet.

poured concrete will assume the molded shape
of cavities it seeps into when wet;
its hardening’s a preservation, sets
the hole in time (as when magnetic tape,
below the artifacts of hiss and scrape,
encodes a voice we’d otherwise forget);
as hole erodes, the concrete mold might let
the echo of an absent shape escape.

when young, he walked a certain path to school
and knew the village skyline, every tree,
exulting in expansion of his soul;

as decades pass, he rages under cruel
confusion; fixed protrusions cannot be
snapped off to fit an ever-shifting whole.

alex guenther. interview here and books here (new sonnet sequences “the heave.” and “the deodar seeds.” available as ebooks now).