In this polygonation, all my loves
(Including those who didn't love me back),
Listen to me: not only am I she
Who desires you, but she who renders, too,
Much pleasure over others. If you drink...
Does that mean that another does not drink?
Of this our joy,
one joy,
the selfsame joy...
Can you (and can you say you don't) partake?
With us, who cannot speak of any them?
The love that's sometimes God, I think it wants
Some admiration, which I've got, to spare,
For sides of different measure, who, like me,
Still differ from themselves, and whom I love...
Our triangles transcended spherically.
Fire Walls
These sonnets are not prison cells, they're nodes
in a network of nuanced circuitry
conveying nerve impulses, neural spark--
I write in fire--between the luscious curves,
coition and cognition, I enact--
breaking the torture wheels of cogito,
communication, or...co-ignition:
here, our messages catch fire together.
Yet still I miss the sparkle of your eyes,
your texture, your flavor; if I write
them here for other minds, you understand
theyr'e not the same as yours. But then I'm free
of guilt for having so imprisoned you--
love's non-proprietary code shared wide.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXV