A new sonnet about reflecting on reflections.
the view to my side
So I look back into a pure reflec-tion, once that was impure yet perfect then,
existing there and on a cloud of fleck
and foam, ephemeral as thoughts of men
which rarely are recalled again. For some
they can record the triumph they inspired,
though details are obscured; for they will come
to where they were before they had retired,
with satisfaction all that ever will remain.
Yet I do differ from the same, a curse
of bubbles which survive the prick's disdain
to keep their spherical domain and verse,
for it was poetry and motion, named
for what is always similar and famed.
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