Sapphic poems call upon mathematic skills, as meter meted out over three lines, groups of two feet followed by three, again two, ending with five beats.
Even this old formalist, prehistoric in his method, limps along through elevens, just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd; seven-four, five-four.
Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits, stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms, sinking slowly, praying for preservation; creative fossils.
NaPoWriMo day 11...a confounded Sapphic poem. And I thought sonnets were structured....