an anagram sonnet

(via)

A feast for pilcrows.

"Love is born. A thin cloud bestirs theft
such a festive birth not to be droll silt.
No strict habits should live on bereft
of love. Blind, it throbs; truth ceases in
antic trust. Oh, love is blest, for behind
its first bother, viols enchant. Double
fret (blush) scares the volition to bind.
It finds both chaste lovers in trouble.
Love throes ache, but sit blind in frost.
The love born of bliss dictates in hurt
a nibbled truth, sloven heir of its cost.
Noble itch is hovel burn, tastes of dirt.
The bit done, not favors rise, but chills;
Best avoid, not note, such brief thnlls."

--Janet Hodge via @AnthonyEtherin

"The pandemic feels both futuristic and biblical, eschatological and utterly banal."

(pic by tom hendricks on fb)