February: Year-day 34

        
                                        
                                         
February: Year-day 34

I love the sonnet, so blustery free,
laughing in its chains, strong in its voice full
of icicles, steam, crocodile eggs, me,
voluptuous, concerned, impregnable,
expecting visits from monsters, roots, gods,
terrible in their urgencies, cold tides
harrowing boats, docks, doctrinal frail clods,
enterers of exits: we: race of prides.

Such contrivances we envision, putting
one over on ourselves every time, yet
nimbly enough for our limited view,
not needing true perfection, faultless footing,
even if we don't let rats/insects get
tomorrow.  I hate the sonnet.  Don't you?

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