A Midwife’s Song

The barren bones of a poem inside me,
Some people have got it, and some have not;
I exhumed the soft tune of a sonnet,
Some people want it; most poets forgot.
I dress the dead metre with words and wax,
Our patrons in the palace were shot;
There are no survivors of their syntax,
Their betrayers reworked each person’s plot.
My adversaries expurgated wit
By blackly burning the books of my life;
Mistaken, my imagination lit,
The embers gave birth to a blue midwife.
This is the poem, newborn on my bed,
Where words and verses and whole worlds bled.