I don't know how to say it. In a form

I don't know how to say it. In a form
I become like a bird, I sing a sound
composed of little phrases. The same sound
I made the time before starts to inform

the next, the restrictions of sonnet form
hold freedoms I can't tell. Within the sound
of turning verse, when villanelles resound,
something is wrought beyond the words and form

employed. A stretching rhetorical sense
hides in the lines, what now may seem a new
trope or device resembles what the old

verse worked with. The whirling sound of sense
or sense of sound I make is nothing new,
but fresh disclosure of the very old.