Robert Hill Long
Can you feel the drugs tonight? I Disney-lullaby
I watched my father drop through his morphine drip.
Her name is Midnight. She sinks through dope-comfort.
for loved ones after spending my portion
We ride chestnut mares toward cellos
Whatever we see or point to sings—
voices here: See closer. Hear more. What
the warmth of our mounts. The replete
I've been writing sonnets with my right hand for over ten years now—the most recent books are largely collections of sonnets and narrative or elegiac sonnet sequences—while the left hand sneaks in prose poems, brief fictions, or narrative poems, mostly about recent wars and their victims. The sonnet is a game whose rules preoccupy the thinking mind—tinkering with phrase, line-break, rhyme, compression, the syllabic limits—while the real work goes on in a reverie that counts on surprises or rather unanticipated discoveries. These two sonnets come from a current impulse to reframe what and where heaven is, how it operates, while knowing I don't really want to create a fixed cosmology to replace the shabby older ones.