"A whatsit sphere" [sonnet]

A little bit of poetry I make
a pair of lines (or four or eight or twelve)
five minutes (or some half-hour) I take
within the sea of language for to delve
 
an idle pastime -- such this has become
perhaps played most when some stray turn of phrase
the lyric lure might tap (as on a drum)
to call forth my tattoo of vapid praise
 
or (likewise empty) humor or mere thought
for thought I guess is what the art involves
but what is thought? a sort of bubbly naught
a whatsit sphere that bloooms pops & dissolves
 
into the sea of mind -- thought's mother dark
we play at poetry but for a lark



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Written by way of response to a friend's inquiry, "David, writing poetry these days?"