after Shakespeare's Sonnet #32

after Shakespeare's Sonnet #32

If thou outlast my eudaimoinic eve,

When that boor Fate my dice with dirt shall mask,

Or shalt by hazard once more re-appraise

These poor rude twills of thy zombie romeo,

Collate then with the uplifting of the year,

And though they be outpac'd by every fold,

Retain them for my birdheart, not their ends,

Overflowed by the tip of happier crews.

O then patent me but this room's view:

Had me mate's Dream grow with this growing eld,

A dearer calf than this briarheart had born,

To tramp in seeds of four-in hand knots:

But since he balled and conceits better fail,

Theirs for their form I'll scan, his for his heart.