Day 46 (51st birthday sonnet)

for a day, the machine becomes a man
repaired repurposed for the moment
at rest. some old floppy disc memory
plays back a slower program: RUN
by facsimilating relaxation
there is no knowledge of the wharf
all rhythm follows the common time
patter of the dogs. yes the weather’s warm

but there is no majesty in it just a program
booted up. my eyes blue like old computer screens
take in the unscripted code generated
identifying the silence of moments
between sunrise and the arrival
of the system update in your smile.

Day 47

wharf wannabe triatheles
return with warm weather:

rumors of the season
already rolling: my imagination

turns to visions of fire
to the smell of diesel of oil