Surreal Sonnet

Surreal is like a sonnet without rhyme
Or digging in the trash and finding gold
When blank-verse marks the edges of the moon
Surreal becomes the fastest way back home

Such little songs of poetry may bloom
Like flowers in a field of desert mud
Or finding life in death beneath a rock
Such insects carve their tunnels for their queen

To rhyme without surreal capacity
Enlist the graves of pigeons and of ghosts
Transparent or translucent clouds conform
With paradox, dichotomy, and truth

Surreal is like a couplet found in time
That gives a sonnet just a final word.

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