# Art of the Sonnet: 214
> I give you more than love, I give you insanity,
> I give you the clock off my back, my extra pair
> of blind eyes, my seat at the Fire Exchange,
> my god I give you my fins in mothers jelly
> preserves, what more do you want, Kriss Kringle,
> I give you my third cheek for the turning, its tear
> turned into the homicide squad, my special foghorn
> for bright days, my single ski gene,
> I give you my age by consulting my carbon ball,
> my special barber who tunes his comb on crystal
> skulls, my ether wings for theoanesthesiologies,
> and all my old wives,
> what more can you need, Kriss Kringle, than
> these mended toys for unintended children ?
# Art of the Sonnet: 165
> When in the rise and fall of torsos in
> the twilight-crusted torque I heard the sennet
> of my hour, I said I had not posed
> for ancient races or their deathless fetes;
> I held no brevities to my garbled nose;
> and I was impervious to my gaited skin.
> With skull and limbs how shall I be pagan?
> how shall I model, then, a century's turn
> in the light bronze dusk to torsion's paradise?
> For I am that finally civilised threat--
> the fully clothed bearer of the letter
> of credit, the total failure of nakedness.
> I broke my trumpeted hour over my crutch,
> that all crippled torsos might beg as much.
# Art of the Sonnet: 233
> Now do the oaks in the winter stand like nuns
> against the blue-sheared stone of the mountainside,
> as if to make of whatever flinty bounty comes
> their boughs from passing glints of gods a tithe
> of memory--against that time when we
> shall be born again with instruments, and Judgment
> Day how well we played with them, just
> as these oaks must have been sown to some wind's
> sound and grown nigh on a tune that left them so
> in a grave bride's dance to a groom who went
> with the dying air of his strings before
> she was taken.
> Perhaps, on the other side of the mountain, if it is bare,
> we can wait without our habits for him there.
# The Impeccable Barbed Wire
> The impeccable barbed wire blasting birds;
> snarled, then, with bellowed warble,
> the huddle of wings hogtied. But, trussed
> to the terminals, how gorge these bleating
> toggles to its own taut? Nicked to
> the narrows, waspwrung, the wire wails
> to rust, its own spare bloodpoisoning,
> that across the arbitrary it be not charged
> with next-of-kill, but the knack
> of felling niche some sapped rots
> away. We are clean out of powdered
> red flakes, and cannot, for
> the impersonal life of us, snap into song.