half-crazy crochet sonnet

on Blake   in certain company, less mad

than mischievous   living by miracle, any plagiarism

he reckoned, God’s

        believing, though, the world

was flat   circumnavigation

a hoax of thistles and rancid cream, and death

itself, another version of salvation   as a child, beaten by his mother

for his sworn belief

of the prophet Ezekiel sitting by a tree in a neighbour’s field

        everyone knows, he said, the tigers

of wrath wiser than horses of instruction

        never parted in life, after his passing his wife complained

of such time away, in Paradise