More Petrarchan Practice

Please give me some sugar laced through with fat:
Corn oil, butter, lard, whatever’s there;
And while you’re at it, let it be light as air,
As vault and loft as the tallest top-hat.
And then when you are finished doing that
You’ll squeeze yuzu on my tongue if you care
About my palate:  That way I can bare
To move my frame, be sprightly as a rat.

If yuzu is too hard to find, lime can
Do; so long as my buds are tartly dressed
My every taste will spell gratitude.
After all this, please let there be a man
Looks better than any bite, and he’s pressed
His hands round me—no more turn aside and brood.

Sestina Draft

Moonlit

When I                               strive                            to write the
Most pretentious                         poem
                                                  Possible                   I will
Fail and                              this skill                      turn
Marrow
Pearly                  but not pearl                nor purls.

Lamb bent over weir            blue iris                 redly purls
Its moraine those            kinds of the
Refuse                  all than          indefinite         as if marrow
                                                                              Meant poem
Could bleed                breaths of                  which turn
Flowers                 make malice free from will.

If this                   poem     bleeds              metaphor will
Render lapis blue                 unfathoms purls
Slip out some                    presiding       circumference            refuses turn
But the
Broke the                poem
I clomb fractally clambered          rehearsing pistons         limning marrow.  

When definite                             catches fire                    marrow
                                                                                              Will
                                             Burn poem  
And turn                        till internment                         purls
                                                                                         The
Tune within bird no flame can turn.

Seasons run                                 way      models                    turn
                                                   Marrow
Inside out           hot              pink velvet sleeves            unveil the
                                                              Will
Purls
Poem.

I want this poem
Hotly          but every              turn
                                                Taken              ossifies purls
Till pearls loop cold larynx                         taunts marrow
                                   Refracts jet’s will
Rescinds thee from the.

Not every poem              possesses marrow
But each                      turn       means                 affect will
Light subject via distances             like purls predicate the.