Held

To call this this a taste of World Divine
prevents it lasting past the sight of stars
except in half-translucent jagged shards
of harmony and heart and wax-tinged wine

that fade as going on means letting go
of breath to breathe another time instead
until one day the memory is dead
of what we maybe once desired so

or so it seems til interlacing fingers
speak to life a piece of this that lingers

Meta (Potentially)

According to my grandpa, proper sonnets
have one stanza more than mine have had.
I look online and find that—oh, gosh darn it—
he is right, of course. I'm in the bad.

Now comes the choice to change my form or not.
In just another couple lines we'll see
if I decide to drink that dusty draught
of rhyming scheme that rhymes along til "g."

What might each poem actually hold
if I allowed it fully to unfold?

Dream

On our walk to class I ask you
if I'd left without my coat

You say yes and I realize
it's not actually that
cold out and I'm fine
in this sweater

You hug me
before we get into
different elevators

going to the same place
There are music stands
poking out of the snow and I

pull one out but it is bulky
so I put it back and leave the rest
half-buried