i've fallen back into john berryman's sonnets to chris, and tonight am particularly taken by the first one, which seems appropriate. so here it is:

I wished, all the mild days of middle March
This special year, your blond good-nature might
(Lady) admit-- kicking abruptly tight
With will and affection down your breast like starch--
Me to your story, in Spring, and stretch, and arch.
But who not flanks the wells of uncanny light
Sudden in bright sand towering? A bone sunned white.
Considering travellers bypass these and parch.

This came to less yes than an ice cream cone
Let stand... though still my sense of it is brisk:
Blond silky cream, sweet cold, aches: a door shut.
Errors of order! Luck lies with the bone,
Who rushed (and rests) to meet your small mouth, risk
Your teeth irregular and passionate.


Things I particularly love:
the seventh line, with its continuation of the run-on sentence and then that quick wonderful phrase of the bone sunned white.
all of the wonderful hyperbaton that makes the logic seem roundabout and muddled and train-of-thought-like and like a maze. it is amazing, which is what that word actually means, which also is really cool.
the fact that the fifth line starts with "me," as if asserting the speaker's place in the story, which even after so much roundaboutness, is kinda the point.

the last line. well maybe the last two lines. but the last line especially.