Context — A recent Bay immigrant lent me a cap that helped me write. And now I’m 10 sonnets in to Vol 2 of the Annals, and 128 sonnets behind in posting Vol 1.
Six weeks since keys on board I’ve sought to peck,
bereft of inspiration so as to
thus merit allocating time. Then fleck
of fiery cosmic trail swept my view:
from farthest port she set her moor strings loose
determined to depart from busy-ness,
relocated where nature/city truce,
renewed her manufactures, fizzy lest
the shift stir up anxiety. That she
in reinvention landed in the Bay
caused me to be the pro tem addressee
of mental-incubating hued crochet.
Thank object forcing rainbows on my skull
for waking pen from three-fortnight-long lull.