Each Verse a Vampiric Kiss
Virgil! Dante! What help? These sonnets pile
toward heaven like sins, black stains soaking
through pristine robes—here again I’m poking
around in our canon; holy and vile
beside graceful and graceless, mile on mile—
scrolls endless as sky, that azure cloaking
that hides heaven from eyes—they sin, stoking
fires in which to—eternal—burn! No trial . . .
Even this stanza sinks fangs into veins
pulsing iambic! Vampire pen! Suck life
into your inkwell; drink in verse. Our reins
are bit through! Stallion-wild, mimetic strife
speaks itself from fingers numb as rhyme drains
itself of cliché to take its new life.
David M Pitchford