one hundred little droplets, misty trail
of lines, of verse, iambic rhymes and beats;
o fourteen hundred lines you shall prevail:
you tread upon your darling bouncing feet.
old Shakespeare took your wanton surly ways
and made you tell such lovely royal tales
to which the Moderns took and dragged away
your morning song, so sweet and pure, so frail.
but now upon the page: Navarro's turn
to break the bouncing meter and to free
the sonnet's inner demons, which all burn
away the chains of thy and thou and thee.
one hundred sonnets: now the form shall stray