Float

To write a sonnet is a curious thing.
It once was merely fashion--de riguer--
To take a little room, and make it sing.
But now it smacks of heresy: impure,
Reactionary, even. Yet the form
Is still the same; the words (with some exceptions)
Remain unaltered. It is but the norm
That has abandoned me for new directions
Preferring something smacking less of craft,
With fewer rules (or less explicit ones).
For me, the sonnet is a little raft
To float across the depthless sound that runs
Between the banks of what I feel and say--
I cannot cross it any other way.