***A sonnet built around Press Space to Stop’s song “sean”
He wakes, where could he have ever begun?
What could have brought this poor boy’s verity?
What could possibly bring some man’s grandson
Close to their bedroom’s singularity?
*
Revered for the infinite art inside,
Funneled down canals in shirtless youth,
Sounds digested for status, art aside:
Unfathomable art, there for a sleuth
*
A body made entirely of teeth
With nerves and endings not quite ev’rywhere
A blossoming head adorned with a wreath
Endless happy false starts without an heir
*
But surely if it’s good enough for God
Then Sean will bear it on his shoulders broad.