Sonnet XVI

The end is not for sonnets no the knight

Of mirrors crows brazen triumph Mordred's lance

Strikes through Arthur silence a hollow crump

As yesterday fades away Paul McCartney hums

And rhyme is of less import

Than the woven mist echoes of one

Guitar whose white plumes fade and lie on earth for

The throne of God is perilously high

Nor is it for literary allusions but snapshots a dalmatian

Drowned in the fountain of Central Park puppy dog

Black and white by a pushcart salesman

Hawking salty hot pretzels cooked on his grill

From whose ashes no doubt another phoenix shall arise

With its gaudy cerements stinking of the grave

Christopher J. Cramer

May 13, 1984