Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. This is more-or-less an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
PRESS the grape of joy against your palate high but still you’ll fail to make its savour last as worn out letters to the flames are cast so rhyming couplets come and pass you by like swift traverse of planets in the sky and so all treasure seems into the past to slip, a falling light, a trumpet’s blast, the charm of slumber on a heavy eye; but ever-wakeful is my eye with you the bread of love you thought could not be riven was cleft, and yet my gaze has followed through all the efforts in which you have striven but now you must begin your lives anew everyone is totally forgiven