Red Letter Day and South American Spice
Today I spooled out sonnets, sonnets, ten
Of them, extruding all like plastic knives,
Or forks, or spoons. They spilled again, again,
Again as boring as Solomon’s wives
Became to him, perhaps, each plaything thin
As plastic handles while the nights wore on . . .
Each tasting like an ever new King Sin,
All building towards a climax in the dawn.
The point is not the red, more scarlet than
A poet or a monarch on his throne
Might hope for, maybe more like any man
Could never dream of, more like thrilling moan.
The cluster of this rhythmic, rhyming ten
For some tastes hot, as fieriest cayenne.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Sep 18, 2024 | IN |