SONNET 121
'... Where the return stands by disdain ...'
~ Thomas Wyatt, Circumdederent me intinici me
Beacon of Source -- till house was lamplight -- messenger
Reposed the garnet break of greater prisms bright
As mem'ry meant e'erything, mine eludes forever
And knew what else your justification's upright.
I'm but none a thing at all, neither claims but sprawls
For something greater, nevertheless; it employs
Subtlety, dear pow'r, coaxes you where hope's 'vacuate
But that Source, like spring, like Thanksgiving in the void
Of love but selflessly is love appreciate;
Our own un-love begins at home -- but what is home?
In ourselves yet lost, 's age is inattentiveness.
For bliss, oh how meager a dream left in the womb;
A withering person, a wormwooded canvas,
A cup of spilled hemlock, be gentler, spacious last.
