(A Petrarchan sonnet forgoing rhyme*)
*(if there is such a thing)
Legs tangled, breath upon her nape. In sleep
We dream of words lost unto waking hours
And nomenclators are- Informing the
Impossible; the lexicon of love.
It’s every idiom doth defy the
Grasp of the cognisant mind governed tongue
But crawls out of slack throats in slumber; loves
Precise expression; failed somniloquence.
White horses fall off of gusts tempered and
In silver lulls drown. And snow’s fatal crash
On the loch sounds the same soft utterance
As lovers joined in dreams of poetry
That will leave an impression on the mind
But fade and dance as a ghost on the tongue.