Lost Kingdoms

By Peter Halstead

I organize these rhythms
In all deference,
So that their angled prisms
Manufacture only glints

Of things, clones
That cunningly replace
Us on our mobile phones
With a more public face,

The way that phloem
Rushes up a tree,
Finding in its borrowed home
Something complementary,

But I hope that this uproar
Won’t, as sonnets will,
Feign what came before,
But instead, my queen, until

Kingdom come,
Fuse our pages in the sun.

July 26th–27th, 2021
November 28th, 2021