3rd February 2014

Sonnet 86

First, have my apologies for this  verse

And the past eighty-five if read by you,

And the next sixty-eight I might inhearce:

 Ego's the  tombe and wombe wherein they grew.

My excuse is the times in which I write

Have, I think, left natural mystery dead,

Infra red cameras illuminate night

Time sex - and leave us unastonishe'd.

What does surprise me is how Shakespeare's ghost

Defends love against what intelligence

A 21st Century woman can boast,

I am not sick of any fear from thence.

     But when Will's countenance fills up my line,

       I lack matter, his voice infeebles mine.