Sonneteer Apologist

I’m sorry for drowning you in sonnets
like every thought from my head was prescribed to fit
in a ten-by-fourteen frame, sing-songing
through some predictable rhyme, some questionable ears,
to a twist at the end, probably not
twisty enough;

god knows that this vanilla heart
is risk averse; has been hiding behind
decasyllabic walls. It’s so easy
to crawl into bed with Familiarity,
down comforters are better than sex
to someone who wants to escape
from everything he hates.

i can sleep through an age
of the changing world without blinking,
and yet i strum this old harp
in predictable ways, thinking that
i’m singing something new; that
this deep dreaming is some post-hoc booty call
from the days where I lived
on the straight edge, as if those days
exist.

if i believed in burning books
i might spare you from my old verses,
but fuck it: your eyes are here, and you’ve read
what you’ve already read, but here’s to
new days, better booze,
and poems that don’t suck.

–After Tim Adell, on my first day of English 211A, Poetry Writing

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