Sonnet
Lucy Brothers
Your bones are nothing more than glue,
Which binds together all your parts,
A spine of paper, cardboard too
And printer’s ink that makes your heart.
Though mute you tell your story well,
Beginning, middle, to the end
And weave such tales from joy to hell
By deadly foe and dearest friend.
Your home you have upon a shelf
And born you were of thoughtful mind,
Exposed, put out, and now are delf
Before your feathers are set a-bind.
And though it may be great surprise Joy a book brings to mine eyes.
