Improper Sonnet

               Oh look at you now 
 
                               with your listing crown 
                                      and your overturned phrases 
                               fumbling on the stage—forget it, 
         page. This is no place for starched charms. 
                      That saccharine bit won’t fly this time. 

                      Run, run back to your rose-tinted past! 
         This race is so fixed, you wouldn’t finish last—
                you’d just be finished, and scarcely missed:

               My lover’s love at first kiss was a liquid

fire right there in the front seat of the car. I swallowed hard 
and thought to myself: Drive, damn it. Drive. Drive. Listen, 
                     this is just paper, tiger—but her wish, she said, 

                     was to burn you alive.
— for Sara