i
kneel
puzzled
by the words
sir thomas wyatt
used to compose his poetry
seemingly plain yet darkly coded to us not on
his level – assuring devotion to king and court ladies while privately mourning his cousin queen anne –
tom keep your precious words – we commoners thank your bringing us forms – sonnets and rondeaux
which we ride in crude grey clothes with vivid imagery
you hold your station while we sing
since nothing we be
our words live
brighter
than
yours
