Sonnet I
From the trees, from the grooves, from the fountains,
The brides are compelled to a weaver’s shed.
Who are you with queer workings that detains
Ghosts, leaving chores to observe you instead?
That a deity finds challenge in your eyes,
Have contingencies: by feats are gods made.
What has a goddess to prove ‘gainst a maid
That she appears disapparent in lies?
Official idols are promethphobic,
And have their stooges who pry for the proud.
Should the gifted be apologetic
That an areola aureate does becloud
Her senses, his brain, that a fate tragic
In such a dubious way appeals poetic?
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