HOT LITTLE CRICKET SONNET THAT WANTS WANTS WANTS   but hasn't, being all but sex, all filch, iambic shanked & muscle mad to batten him thigh to knee but leave an oxygen enough for one keen lust to breathe & want but want what crickets want, fair hearing played at night: he lie he lay he lain he lay he laid me on the salt and pepper hay he weltered yarrowly fey as lemonade or something like that beyond the crunk of kenning like saxifrage, Stonehenge, like fibulae to ideate my chamber, like forewings trussed by joints not dactyls & rhyme up-roughening all tug and ballast, sinkhole, clubfoot weighed, not worded: but touch me I will turn to thing. --Julie Sheehan   Other poems from Julie Sheehan: