XII. Sonnets for Dancer

I might tissue up before a missive decree

to seal up the fates injuriously deemed

to be my own, contagiously at the least,

as no greater dansuer than myself leads

one cataclysmic waltz ‘round hot ancient pyre

of misgiven thoughts, forlorn desire insensed

to be misled, too tailed, too futile to sire

the progeny seminal to moments commenced,

commingled with flowers on the winds since spent

on your gentler soils of which my tired toes attest,

adoring your chambers, your heartfelt intent

which might yet prepare my world for the best

dressed saplings immersed in humic toil

as moisture-seeking matters come to a boil.