May 24, 2024

(very liberal sonnet form)

Ne’er touch two shipwrecked dry and jagged planks.

When whets one, one through prickly sands recoils. 

So we askewed—to meet—why meet below?

Not you nor I directs our stymied plot.

The gods and flesh and whimsies only are

Some flimsy threads, and Circumstance the mender,

Whose music's as ambiguous as shapes

You make after my heart you've pricked and dizzied.

There is no change of will of which to speak;

If so, of other flesh we’d find our selves.

And if allowed, sparse budgets could swears buy;

If sanctioned, could our warring trenches meet.

Alas! If is only If’s—self-belonging.

And we, like If, preside o’er prisons longing.