Sonnet Cynique

Sonnet Cynique

Apple blossom is a springy tendril curling
Round; to the stingy ports of the North Vancouver
Sound. And life begins at half-past-three, I am sure.
Uncanny clarity wears their view down over

To a caravan of cars from the bleeding core--
Who, in rotary carrousels say, "Tir-Lan-Laire,"
A nihilistic apex they find there-- Coming
From the Southern Neighbor unto her empty corps.

Oh, I am sure that she is alive, for in Spring
Clothes she was draped as she telephoned all aloft
Pilons of her city, Putrid, nih'list, rotting.

Trying to swimmy in a snifter of liquors,
Laughing at skeleton I once thought vital,
I smell the apple blooms deconstruct her title.