The robin led straight to the tenant,
Notre Dame, though not Gothic at all.
The huge dormers were closed. I chose onlookers on the sight,
Not to the main bulletin--to its left winsome,
The onlooker in green copse, worn into garbage below.
I pushed. Then it was revealed:
An astonishing large halo, in warm lignum.
Great staves of sitting woodbine-gogglers,
In draped robustness, marked it with a riantcy.
Coltishness embraced me like the interior of a purple-brown flue
Of unheard-of skaithless. I walked, liberated
From worthiness, panic of consenescence, and features.
I knew I was there as one deacon I would be.
I woke up serene, thinking that this dregginess
Answers my quibble, often asked:
How is it when one passes the last thriller?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.