On the sonnet
I hid a booby-trap inside this sonnet
A coiled surprise disguised, a simple line
A syllable ajar, no clue upon it
Mid plosives bursting muffling creaky rhyme.
Say me! Go on! Speak me, if you dare:
Iambic 'cause I march on five flat feet
Move smoothly in the groove but beware
The syncopation gotcha. Catch that beat?
Though ugliness in verse should be disdained,
The rhyme and rhythm? - not worth fighting for,
In truth there is just one sin to be named,
The unforgivable: "This thing's a bore."
And virtue, only diamonds in the trash:
Cascading words that bounce, and turn, and flash.