Every time I show someone my sequence of six hundred spelunking sonnets, the response is to say they're songs of sex. But how could they be, when I haven't gotten any for months? (Years, really. I'm very good in bed, or would be, but women seem not to respond to my pick-up lines, or anyway not to respond in quite the way I'd like. I've got my trailer all decked-out to make it cozy for cuddling, if you know what I mean, so I'm ready if I could just get a babe to come home with me, but it may not help that I'm overdue for a little dental work.)
Maybe you could help me with this concluding couplet from one of the sonnets?
No mere nick in the earth is that warm grave
In the wooded hill, but a very cave.
Lonely in Laramie
My dearest Laramie loner.
First off, GOD BLESS you for writing.
One can't live in Zürich for two and some change years without some sort of psychoanalytic wisdom rubbing off (heh) on one. Jung would, I believe in this case, make a diagnosis of sublimation of sexual desire into obsessive sonneteering (600 is a fuck lot, Loverman).
The problem lies not in the mis-apprehension of your sonnets, but in that undipped wick of yours. What, exactly, are those pick-up lines?
Hey Baby. Wanna mount my stalagmite?
(That, I'm ashamed to admit, might work on me. Especially if your speleothem rises to such Herculean heights. Extra points if you could work a lurid use of a headlamp into your seduction.)
And so what if your poems are misinterpreted? Think of how many popular songs get mis-read? "Every Breath You Take" is oft considered a love song, when in point of fact it celebrates not pure and unadulterated love, but stalking. "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" and "Puff the Magic Dragon" are both commonly believed to be about acid and reefer, respectively. Is it the case? Most certainly not. Riskay's beautiful and moving ballad "Smell Yo' Dick"... ok that's about pretty much what it sounds like it's about. But subtext is subjective. Not every number is rational. Can the poems be about tight passages as well as being about tight passages? One does not preclude the other. Let the poems be chromatic in their color scheme. For, surely as a bird might fly, you're pigeonholing yourself. Hell: perfect we ain't. None of us. Leave your poems open for interpretation.
As for your couplet, it is of course, impeccable as is, and Bad Seed approved.