Where we at?
I'm going to-- let's see.
I think I'm going to read three more poems.
And this one-- there are a lot of sonnets
in this book, which I wasn't even
aware of as I was writing them.
It's a wonderful form.
But one of the things I argue against all the time
is the assumption that a sonnet has to be a love poem.
And so this sonnet is in a group--
a section in the book called "Eight Angry Odes,"
a contradiction in terms or not.
And it's called "A Sonnet for the Sonnet."
"You have occupied the rose garland throne for so long.
No one remembers a time when love wasn't a portable feast,
metaphorical conceits sung to the gimpy tread of a heart
beat.
That true rhyme equals contentment, a neatened song
we've learned to yearn for.
My dumpling, that is entirely your doing.
A glittering fait accompli, we've
been duped into trying to make reality
complete with lute plucked warbling under a moon splashed
lattice.
Let's face it.
Love is messy, or boring, or hurts like hell,
and then it's gone.
Even when we're satisfied, beyond the garden gate,
the rest waits, all those years you never thought to mention.
No matter how the cake is sliced,
some choice bits break off.
It's nearly wide enough for two, this sugar coated ledge.
We clamber on for one more lick of the jagged edge."