The poetry I write, this form evokes:
it’s not that I have something set to say;
the sonnet scheme itself colludes to coax,
by dint of meter and of rhyme, the play
of thought and imagery that slowly shapes
my phrases and my clauses, line by line,
which sometimes dance or sometimes trot or traipse,
explicitly unfolding their design.
How curious and magical this feels,
as if I were the agent of this form
that has possessed my brain till it reveals
a pattern in my busy thoughts aswarm
that finally take shape as if designed
this way, from the beginning, by my mind.