by Gideon Burton
However tightly I compose these lines
of verse, however densely sewn the meter–
though sealed hermetically, the thought confined–
the center stuff breaks free, its soul far fleeter
than I can compass with a sonnet's rope.
But still these rhythmed strands I weave again,
and yet, escaping well beyond my scope
of rhymes, clean past the fences of my pen
quite out of bounds, like water sunrayed free,
the sense defies the "water" "sun," and "ray."
The words I use I find are using me,
and nothing, like a breath, will pause or stay.
Like iambs I will breathe with even stress,
unscrambling chaos with this wordy mess.
Image: flickr - alles-schlumpf