April 2nd, 2014

Sonnet 122

 Ruffs, stuff he wore, breathed with scent of his braine,

Recycled to rag, then paper memory,*

Burnt or buried, there's elements remain:

Will's carbon's still writing eternity.

Motes of an hysteric erotic heart

Air pumped still atmospherically subsist -

Breathed into A4 leaves, I blow to part

Rhymes of his; I steal breathing space of mist.

Tran substantive piece of you I can hold,

Write on. I'm a dog barking Mozart's score,

(What are you doing? Please stop making bold

When even Larry O.** didn't add more).

I write these adjuncts to remember thee,

Just to feel your breath breathe inside of me.

*Clothes in Elizabethan England were recycled because fabric was so expensive - from hand-me-downs to rags and, eventually, paper.
**Sir Lawrence Olivier