What I Assume

An English sonnet wherein any resemblances to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Inspired, of course, by Richard Lovelace’s Song (To Lucasta, Going to the Wars).

Going Out

Yes, dear, I'm going out, though it's past ten--
But don't wait up; relax your aching head,
stay: watch TV, or chatter to a friend,
sleep and warm our sanctimonious bed.

Where? Though any answer can't suffice
or satisfy this pure, protective question
let's say the store to fetch a bag of ice
a prop to freeze my fiery intention.

An affair? What could that offer me?
Besides furtive eyes and red smiling lips,
besides impulsive sex, and mystery--
these toys can't touch our anchored, wedded ships.

Don't say a word; parting is sweet sorrow!
I'll return by twelve, or, at worst, tomorrow.

A bref double, using one of Turco’s identified forms. This was based on a short story I’d written in China.

Clacks and Clatters

Foreign matter clatters hard on the floor.
Sleep is broken in a crashing instant--
--listening to waking, nakedly prone…
It's just the cat, strutting her distemper.

But there's something else: silence, a knock
I stumbled to, and answering the door
I found a bare-boned, calcite skeleton
clacking his jaw, and waiting to enter.

I offered it a chair, left it alone
returned with tea, but poured out slick, dull clay.
Clack. He said. So I applied and shaped it,
fleshing a clay mask out from the center.

My own was mirrored in the face it wore;
I tore at my hair but found only bone.