Importantly you turn to face the thingThe thing that mocks your pain with gilded rageIt knows the words to every song you singRegardless of the way you flaunt your ageAs young as any seed before it sproutsAs old as any wisdom in that seedIt knows the grief of all its ins and outsIt feels the callous charms of every needWait, wait. Go back. Go back to quatrain oneLets talk of gilded rage and songs once moreA volta doesn’t mean a sonnet’s doneIt only means that after comes beforeBefore the end of poetry we sellThe words that find their way to some new hell.