The Sonnet as Process is borne out tonight;
Concerning these Verse Worlds, our Quatrains delight:
The first of Existence: Its court is corrupt!
Its Nature of Fairness upon Us is thrust.
We shrink from the terrors of Uncertain Night,
And welcome our Prison's familiar frights.
The second of Reason: So quick is the sound
Of our ideals crashing and buried our proud
Methods, and logic, and practice so wound
In fabrics of thought--some lost and some found.
The last is High Treason: To suspect the selfe
With fragment of conscience--our wrist watch in Hell.
Continuous passage through tortures divine...
Innate, their constuction--with flawless design.
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