brett fletcher lauer

 

(FROM A THORN OF SONNETS)

 

On this day of rest we require an emblem

proving the harps and small bells determined

to be released from the phonograph are

transcendental. Each note carries a digression

but God hates imagination more than progress

and identifies seven ways to hang from

the neck. Empires fall, this one, that one.

The heart aches old with earth, dirty, misused

with inventions that modify a flower.

Ultimately what is developed is inseparable

from the original source of pleasure which

we may now call magnetism. The characteristics

echo and echo an affirmation, until we forget

formulas composed to keep us earthbound.

 

 

 

(FROM A THORN OF SONNETS)

 

Meaning within proof lies likely to deceive

light towards a sexual sense and since

some devices registered as grief turn from

nevertheless to even now implies the setting

in one sense idle like a doubleness unseen

in singularity. It requires remedy unlikely

to bear false witness. This sense of the world

as a physic storm transforms general life

into a state of concealment, a brook flanked

by a willow, locks of hair and pearls

carrying reverberations. More generally,

it was a philosophical joke depending

on the distinction between inner reality

and outward appearance.

 

 

 

(FROM A THORN OF SONNETS)

 

Passing years, at their most destructive,

have scope enough to contain transformation

by violence. Repair condition, the glass

means mirror. Hours pass and refer to seasons.

To destroy the lovely body threatens

to destroy the family, the house to which

one belongs, and possibly his image.

Not the wax but the stamp that marks it.

But the shock lays less in concretion of rage

than in inversion of violence and consequence.

As barren of purpose as in effect. An object

declares ambition: not to write about beauty.

Scattered feelings grow. In the latter sonnets

implications of this desire are pursued.