perhaps i love alliteration’s taste
while rolling off my putrid soiled tongue;
or maybe its a calling from the grave
of Estlin, whom with admittance i love;
it all could be my ode to Carol Ann,
but thirty is so strange a number blessed;
i question thoughts of Shakespeare’s great demands,
embracing Shelly’s quick and doting press;
but all in all i fear i can’t decide
just why the fuels my wanton ways—
so now, September’s days: for each i write
a sonnet for these kindred thirty days.
a month of sonnets; now it all begins
the poet now confesses thirty sins.