Do we measure our rounds in seasons, signs

or sounds? Does the poet sound out sonnets
in yams or iambs, in sines or cosines,
in loans or in tender maids in bonnets?:
It's all still the same; you are who you were,
until you let the songs sing from the snow
and crack the ice, as clear as water, pure
as a porcelain mistress's blood flow:
On the table is an exotic man,
carved in ebony and mahogany;
in the flesh, he'd be a seer, a fawn
coated in the coattails of legacy:
The stars were a riot that fateless night
he slept like a fish and woke up a knight!
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s