It's not always easiest to tell  
what somebody likes; sometimes the thread 
breaks in others' hands, that in your own 
swoons and giggles. I thought you'd like the villanelle  

I mentioned (guess I'm wrong – de gustibus—the dread 
of treading toes, encroaching on the throne,   
totes an onus. The easiest tales to sell 
are cautionaries: bloody death, and fell 

redemptions; this one wasn't nearly prone 
to drama). Sure you'd love the villanelle 
by what's-his-name (it isn't James Scheville,
but Schuyler! the other James), I shut the phone 

and took a groggy naplet by the bed. 
(A floor nap, see, sneaks underneath the knell 
of passing day.) I woke without the dread 
that comes of shirking plans. And what the hell, 

who cares if you dig the villanelle? 
Adherence to a form can take its toll. 
Something essential works up from the bone 
and balks, when the Muse gets pissy, and goes to troll 

a body's finest efforts. Then woodshedding 
doesn't cut it. There's no redemption zone, 
no wiggle room, utterly no means of vetting 
compromise. You're just dead meat, cold stone.