Treasure Islands

The frontons bet on sonnets, good

To the last foot, unlike Lord B
Or LJS, whose syncope
Turned flesh and blood to strap and wood.

Each foot expands the club, the start
Of each sestet a lucky act.
The shape is bowing, hunched with tact,
By present pulse and present art

Betrayed in novel ways. At last
She is a rose and he a stag
Or he the hunk who freed the hag
Into her dewy, virgin past.

The Hellespont swum, Ben Gunn goes bang.
I sing the song my masters sang.