I'm wondering. In what voice shall I launch
this contemplated hundred sonnets, this pell-mell
sequence (more like Frank O'Hara's Lunch
than anything by Petrarch, Keats, or Lowell)?
Too much! These rhymed pentameters: fourteen
a day each morning for three months!
Folly, to drudge out dutifully written
lines that crouch and limp in a hobbling dance.
If I were Mallarmé, I'd take my time
and give the world the whitest swan of winter.
But I'm too buzzed on 3 am caffeine
to offer more than this off-kilter rhyme,
woodwork with beams that any blow could splinter,
structure that even the slightest breeze could lean.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
Read 60 times
Written on 2023-02-12 at 04:19
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by Uncle Meridian
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