Here are a few things is pretty-much traditional sonnet form. All from Transistor Rodeo.
3 : summer’s day : :
Shall I compare 3 to a summer’s day?
3 is shorter in hours by twenty-one,
But longer by a lot when counting weeks.
3 is not so useful for fixing the fence,
Or eating a hot dog at the ballpark, or pie
In the odorous hum of bees and fresh-cut grass.
But perhaps it will suffice for the construction
Of a cloverleaf outside of Harrisburg.
3, however, can divide a lot
Of numbers, like eighteen and forty-two,
And will not end in patricide or what
We call a crime of passion. (Better for
The heat to make us do what we must do.)
3 never leads to anything but four.
Lines composed above Grasmere Lake
Face to face with you and cold on top
of cold grass wrapped in a cold tent
like a dirty burrito. Covered in
Guatemalan sweat. The low rock
walls and I ran all over this moist
countryside last night. Coleridge sitting
by the fire, stoned and unsuspecting,
disregards the noises from the hallway.
Down the tunnel: fireworks: I
remember the Fourth of July
was terrifying. Lamplight on
faces. A thousand disciples
squirm in the heat.
Be still, princess.
Grass, fleece, soft eyes. Nothing here
runs down but water. Expect snow.
Upon hearing news that the government was planning to reintroduce the wolf-whistle into Yosemite
It looks as though the conservationists
have won their battle. Now a hundred five
of that endangered species will be live-
trapped in Chicago, flown to San Francis-
co, and driven up into the mountains. And that,
my friends, is just the start! Next year they’ll drop
three-hundred-fifty heybabes in to stop
the degradation of the habitat.
The ranchers, you can picture, are aghast.
It took them sixty years to clear the last
ones out. And now for twenty-five this patch
of land has been a sanctuary. Watch
what happens next! For now, at least, young girls
walk unmolested through the ranchers’ world.
For though I leave you now, my love,
this breath that swirls above our heads will rise
like the breath of astronauts and burst above
the moon and fall like water from the sky,
and someday you will find me rearranged
and set upon your table like a knife
or fork or spoon and wonder at the strange
inverted image summoning a life
that physics made impossible, that mocks
convention and geography, and I
will fill your heart and lungs up like the locks
of a grand canal.
Today the city dies
of love, my dear, but love of love remains,
like citrus ripening on a northbound train.
Some day the sun will swell on the western horizon
of the day of my life like a blood blister, fierce
and brooding under a heavy nail, and I will come
to this meadow on this mountain in this place
with a name that means horse and sink my fingers
into the rocky soil, into the soil until violets loom
over me like a forest of Chrysler buildings, sink
my taproot fingers a thousand years into the center
of this earth, then awaken in the badlands as a pink
jungle flower, as a lusty tropical bird on the moon
to spread my wings like an awning over soft fruits
in the Phoenix summer and bless the broken hearts
of the school bus full of nuns in their little nun suits
who’ve just learned they’ve been wrong right from the start.