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Charlie Clark
A Sonnet Is a House of Sorrow If You Say So,

its bones a clouded gray and green.
It has stones instead of electricity.
A child sits at its center counting blocks
of time by the loose leaves of a tree,
fingers pulling the dried veins
free and waving them through the air
because they are drawn to limp simplicities.
It can be any time of day
in a sonnet, its walls can tremble
like someone hearing things.
Someone hearing things makes believe
time isn’t moving any differently.
A sonnet is a house their sorrow can leave.
A man befriends a cloud by letting it be.

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