For poet Steven Nightingale, the sonnet is not just a poetic form, it is the form of our dreams: the dream that poetry can take the mind home to original beauties, that the life of each of us is bound to a joy at the midmost of the world, that language can tease a bright reality from the catastrophes of the day, that we may learn to change ourselves, in hopes of becoming hidden sidekicks of light, useful, practical, bemused.