Blast! The Title I Want Was Taken!
i know not the poetics
of form
nor the rules of assonance
or consonance.
i look at the sonnet with sorrow
and the sestina with suspicion
over my tongue
tied in knots.
silent.
how to piece a prompt
when the muse
who haunts my note books
is somewhat sporadic in her presence
and that—at best.
i default to this,
my friend,
a sibilance of style.
and whither shall my pencil go—
only where it is wont
as i learn
and hang my pencil
behind my randy ear
haunting your note books instead.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2013