Sonnet 12

Fifteen years ago or so, unboundried
with Shakespeare's plays, they were
another arm, foot, or heart of my own.
I died with true Desdemona pleading,
flowered myself like Ophelia, floating
and muddied in her river grave, hated
Claudio and loved Benedict as Beatrice.
Bottom's mule mouth I entranced kissed.
I subjoined for days betwixt thoughts -
theirs, mine, and Modern and Elizabethan
time.  Now, studying Twelfth Night or
Othello's decent into I know not what,
I awake unencumbered, expanded,
hearing the sunrise and sunset of rhyme.