My God, you’re dancing – hands like startled doves And gently curving ankles keep my time Just so. Syncopated hearts intermesh With lips, rhythmic eyes and then the coda…
Twin systems colliding. It’s terminal. Let’s mix. Leave me stumbling like a drunkard And praising seven velvet witnesses With words made of breath and eyes cast from starlight.
Gasp once. Trap air before it can betray How close you are to melting like butter And I to puddling at your collarbone. It’s faster now, mixed like milk in coffee
Or intermingled breath flowing slowly Down the valley forged between our bodies.
I know form poetry is passe these days -- it's strange to think free verse has actually been ascendant for nearly 100 years! It seems form poetry has been thoroughly licked, although free verse never quite seems to get over needing to prove itself.
However, sonnets are lovely especially when written in 'strict' form (three quatrains and a couplet, ten iambic syllables each - no cheating!) - the restriction is like a painter's frame, it is easy enough to paint freeform but the frame provides a lovely bracket, and what's not shown is as important as what is.