Aug 292011

Square sunlight on a square green field
Shows in a polluted puddle a perfect sky reflected:
The ordered boskage of the public park blesses
All those whose disordered hearts it caresses.

Love, with her careless powers
Marks or marrs our unable hours
Until desertion's our proof of having been touched;
Although the matter is little, the feeling is much.

Crossing that out, I then passed
A dead house with nothing to recommend it,
Solitary and unstately on the grizzled grass
And thought again about my sonnet:

Love's a whitened house with thin ivy trim,
Red roofing tiles almost caved in;
Its got attic eyeots to let out the stale air
Ninety long years had inheld with stale cares.

Soon I topped a big crooked hill that tapered,
And unsteadily almost drunk with the magnificent view
Settled down sweating to my dark square of paper,
Carefully writing while the sky was askew:

Love, which soaks up all connotations,
A paranoid obsessive of boozy inflection
Will cringe at each hiss, puff at ovations,
And in light looks divine heavy temptations.

A garter snake having easefully transgressed
My naked left ankle, I stood as I Xed out the rest.
One quarter's still blank; I'll try one more time.
Perhaps my tongue-tied Amour is a mime?

Love, the anaconda banded to the brow
Compresses all meditations into raw howls,
Cancels all occupations, the well and the dour,
And contracts imaginative maybe into definite now.

All of the objects (the snakes, the sonnets)
Distributed like rhymes in this Lover's Park
Endure the warm unlacing of the afternoon yet
And stay in stricter order until after dark

When darkness grants us all all the dark wishes
No acquaintance of daylight would ever wish us.

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