Watching the old fears float slowly by
Verily, the head wobbles and the arch sinks back into the neck again
As the sonnet shrieks and skits away
None of that sort of form today
A lax of philosophical insight might do the reader and the poet some good
On this occasion
With the thought that the only thing that the
Poet really chooses
To Put the
Prose happens when you use punctuation ,./?'! and let the typesetter do the exclaiming for you it always bores me to talk about form when writing a poem about form but today I forgot to bring my treasure trove of memories and platitudes about life to ponder upon.
But in order to publish something I'll mearly quote this evening Yeat's lament:
All men are in love,
And they love what vanishes...
What more is there to say?