And did they hear, those on-looking distant
Rules, hear did they what was said to the world?
That story must be told by one “me,” can’t
Have a sonnet without that one letter mold—
First person voice, and make it beautiful,
Can’t have a sonnet that doesn’t love,
That doesn’t speak from a mouth of its own
That doesn’t rhyme, that does not resolve
Can’t call it a sonnet if it won’t grow old,
Not Shakespeare but Brooks, not Byron but Stein
And here— the words that did not do what they were told
And here— rules fall, away in line in line
But author? Who author, who inspire? Who make?
Un-sonnet, un-sung it, not claimed. Not take.
