“Oh that my words . . . were printed in a book!” —Job 19:23
“we’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms;”
a space, wherein to place ourselves; aspire
to dwell then dwindle, move around in small
circumspect signs — a gesture we inspire,
a pattern you will laud . . . look at the wall!
we’ll make room in our pretty sonnet each,
to fit the table, chair and bed, to fit
us too; us to remember, us to teach,
so unalterably us to admit . . .
a small assembling voice, I stand within
an empty euclidean stanza, barred
by the canon, the crass collective din
of too few people held in high regard.
all we need is a canon to blow apart
the sonnets, the walls, us and the art.
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