sonnet for kenneth w. seward

when the winter begins to give up its darkness,
when the clouds portend rain and small blossoms
unravel orchestrally from the hair of women and
the hot engine of experimental theater, you will
read my watch secretly, hinting at its utilitarian beauty
and noting the years that have passed.
and we will make a conversation
about the electric bars that descend from heaven.
can you imagine what creation became,
after your flight through its filmy and flimsy covering?
it's all robotic and composed of numbers,
just like you predicted.
music still floats through the air, the waves
that we surfed are larger in this century.