SONNET 117
All the worlds frame being crumbled into sand,
Where every man thinks by himselfe to stand,
Integritie, friendship, and confidence ...
~ Donne, To the Countesse of Salisbury
A ringing in my ear was fiddled by the room,
As close as stamps to their letters, likewise withal
What cherishing myths fell in place those Syrian stars
Who appoint us not where you are nor where you'll fall.
I write a verse content this sonnet-pledge and wrung
For love intents, since 'cause of you, love now feels wrong.
Days are dim in me unmaking what every dawn
Should mean but an obsidian mirror no fault
For blotting found. Yet that moon, quaking Cōātlīcue's
Sword is a silvery but crumpling vernissage,
One sallow agate came my clarion dolorous
For lowest despair, drop boats these swelling passage,
And into the occult channel the corrupt swayed,
Down into unseen depths I'll prefer than their bay.
