I’m in a forms class this quarter. I hate forms. But anyway, here’s a sonnet:
A little cactus shares my windowsill
with phalaenopsis, pensive behind wet
perspiring glass. It is September, yet
the orchids seem naïve—petals still
resound from every flower spike, until
I can’t afford to keep the heater set
to 70 degrees. The cactus lets
itself contract, exempt from autumn’s chill.
He’s seasoned for the rancor of the swart
black night, one hundred ridiculing thorns
that reach for wormy orchid roots. He scorns
them like a child, itching for the sort
of fortune that befalls the beautiful
and mum—resign, irreprehensible.
And here’s that sonnet rearranged by my classmates:
perspiring glass. It is September, yet
of fortune that befalls the beautiful
black night, one hundred ridiculing thorns
that reach for wormy orchid roots. He scorns
them like a child, itching for the sort
and mum — resign, irreprehensible.
He’s seasoned for the rancor of the swart
the orchids seem naïve — petals still
with phalaenopsis, pensive behind wet
itself contract, exempt from autumn’s chill.
I can’t afford to keep the heater set
to 70 degrees. The cactus lets
resound from every flower spike, until
A little cactus shares my windowsill
Disjunction! Beyondsense! My old friends. So happy to see you two wrecking havoc on my sonnet. Stay a while, will you? I’ve missed you bastards dearly.
watchtheFruits 