Sonnets have had it: dead as yellow
birds bobbing like buoys on pink Easter
bonnets Bad enough you have to use
words without sinking the buggers in fourteen
lines O Shakespeare Milton what made you
choose them? O Formalist can't you read the
signs? O Meinke why are you writing another?
Who's sick of sonnets? Iamb iamb
And true I also have had it: taught too
much Bishop Wilbur Frost It all shows Through
blue-black spring evenings I shouldn't think of
such old tugs as sonnets when damn it the stars
tack blazing through the sky Miraculous! Miraculous!
on their traditional track to glorify