A Sonnet Too Swoon (Or The Crowning Of Jesters) Poem by Granville Holt

I stood upon the cusp of my own grave
And there invisioned Archimedes' screw
Turning up a daily dose, for blind nave,
Of endless metamorphosis miscue,
For some will say the lines are left-handed,
Not properly metered as is the norm,
You must so tenderly massage lay form,
That your reading never leaves rhyme stranded.

I longed to find a naked nymph in rube,
Without some vexed gown which covered her nee
And thus make plain this mysterious kiss,
So commonly thought an infinite cube,
I mean it just smacked of possibility,
Condesending, though metaphoric bliss!