Poetry lurks round every random corner,
twitching its tail, and couchant as to pounce;
too quick by far for academic mourners,
an animated Silly Putty bounce.

    A laser hue unphysically pure
    alights to taste a random bit of wall:
    a bleeding hole of terrible allure
    sharply reveals an underlying call.

        We dance with costumed strangers, some who trip
        and some who hold us up until we die;
        But suddenly a dirty costume slips
        to show a smooth exuberant young thigh.

These landing lights align us through the gray
fogs of our lives, until they burn away.

                Sonnet 54