Is it still alive? Or is it a frame
Bared of its bright canvas, a skeleton
Whose fats, organs, and skin have been boiled off?
A mess of blood and nerve is not the same
As a child sprawled on park grass with the sun
On her skin, liable to laugh, itch, and cough.
A deer, stuffed, is immune to bolt and virus.
It looks real. It’s all there. It’s got its parts.
But it’s dead. What breathed there did not survive.
Light will excite cornea and iris.
Enormous gas clouds will ignite into stars.
Engines, precise and fueled, will roar alive.
One may jam parts in place, but something must
Spark it hard, hurt it; force it from the dust.

Publisher’s Announcement

Calculated to reflect the sixty minutes in an hour of heightened imaginative contemplation, the poems in Ernest Hilbert’s first book, Sixty Sonnets, contain memories of violence, historical episodes, humorous reflections, quiet despair, violent discord, public outrage, and private nightmares. A cast of fugitive characters share their desperate lives—failed novelists, forgotten literary critics, cruel husbands, puzzled historians, armed robbers, jobless alcoholics, exasperated girlfriends, high school dropouts, drowned children, and defeated boxers. These characters populate love poems (“My love, we know how species run extinct”), satires (“The way of the human variety, / Not even happy just being happy”), elegies (The cold edge of the world closed on you, kissed / You shut”), and songs of sorrow (“Seasons start slowly. They end that way too”). The original rhyme scheme devised for this sequence—ABCABCDEFDEFGG—allows the author to dust off of the Italian “little song” and Americanize the Elizabethan love poem for the twenty-first century. Speaking at times in propria persona (“We’ll head out, you and me, have a pint”), at times in the voice of both male and female characters (“I’m sorry I left you that day at MoMA”), at times across historical gulfs (“Caesar and Charlemagne, Curie, Capone”), Sixty Sonnets

marshals both trivia and tragedy to tell stories of modern America, at last achieving a hard-won sense of careful optimism, observing “the last, noble pull of old ways restored, / Valued and unwanted, admired and ignored.”