"His lens" | 7

Perhaps that was his secret   after all
for he'd survived   much stronger than some others
each form of poetry had endured a fall
where once they'd sprung up bright   a band of brothers

the sonnet   some presumed a vain romancer
a liar   & a trafficker in whimsy
they only saw his outer form   a dancer
because their thoughts were thin   they deemed him flimsy

but this strange man   knew every season thoroughly
no hour of day or night   but he had been there
the seasons of the heart   for most  pass blurrily
with vague delight   or vapid sense of sin there

the sonnet puts his lens upon your vision
& everything has   suddenly   precision



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