Octet of a Non-Existant Petrarchan Sonnet:
The scrawl was just that, misprision
No suture could mend, like edelweiss.
We weren't left alone with the device
Everyone's whispering about, as in a Fun
House timbre which threatens the spun-
Glass balance I perch on as doves slice
The grey air, supple with the scent of spice
But abrasive not sweet like a Cinnabun.