I
Quite tedious, to some unconscionable,
I do not know why I like sonnets so
Constant, counting tens each syllable,
The iambic can bring my wits quite low.
Perhaps, it is that very steady drone,
So close to my dull heart, a welcome guest
The patient counting of a metronome,
As if the poem and I pressed chest to chest
Could now lie coupled in this single bed,
The words and I, in moonlight buried deep,
The form in graceful lines breathes by my head,
A ghostly partner lulling me to sleep.
It helps to share the night hours with a poem,
The page gets filled, I don't wake up alone.
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