Dear Sonnet,

In your first guise you claimed our bed, Dark Lady.
Between the covers we read you aloud
but quit before the end because the baby’s
raw cry would wake us through the night and crowd
you out. In various forms since then you’ve come:
sonata-brimming harpsichords, cool . . .
. . . . . . .

Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2019 ▪ Shortlist

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