190

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!
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