by Bruce Weber
coos up to rhyme. leaning on it like a lover.
brushing its hair. pinching its behind. caressing rhyme.
tongue kissing rhyme. running his hands over rhyme's body.
and sometimes willy insists we justify the closure of our
sentences with an a b a b rhyme scheme. that god meant us to
speak in quatrains. that the world's gone downhill since the
elizabethan age. that free verse has gotten us in deep doo doo.
maybe crazy willy has something. maybe I better start speak-
ing in sonnets or villanelles. maybe I better mind the way I
end lines - justifying their conclusions with more appropriate
framing - a more musical way of surrendering to the
unfathomability of language. its porousness. its holy surrender
to weak words that leave their stain on our skin or clothing.
their modern bareness incapable of giving in to romance or
beauty or passionate sweet nothings. next time i see willy i'm
going to join him in a long thick parade of rhymes setting the