Words without Song: a Sonnet
Is love a spate of rhyming in the veins?
Or is it even less, a bit of plot (inside a thousand paperbacks)
like stains across their pages? Is it merely hot concessions to the urgent
skin of lust? Are fornication and adultery love’s only incarnations?
And, therefore, must more honest, dull affections simply be the boredom
of a minnow pond when set in contrast with the monsters of the deep? Is
love a fumbling hand that tries to get a feel without a feeling?
Is love cheap?
Is love just genitals that rub toward rhyme, a combination of caress
and slime?
[This sonnet is a sonnet, following all the rules of a sonnet, but is laid out on the page like five paragraphs of prose.]