Sonnet 31

Are words like stone or cement
or water evaporating in the sun,
not heard after heard - undone,
an imaginary poetic figment?
Are they like mere bubbles
a muses momentary fable,

a distant unaffecting rumble, 

with no reason for a double 

take. What did she write?

Did I hear his words right?
Or, are words like life, life with hope? 

You, being a man of mirth

and matter, a friend I trust,

Your opinion? Are they life, or dust?