The Silent Poet's Lament

I have not tested this, the resting pose, the deep sublime

A penny here a button or a shoe, a faded rhyme

A faulty name that speaks of shame that sits inside a dime

Or watches and a hanging door that cannot tell the time.

The floaty, flitty, flabbergasted fluid filling here

Or piles and piles of smells and petty pleasures shedding tears

Extemporaneously changing rage inside a mirror

And all the things that bang upon my door that I’m afeard

So sitting on a stump and rump and calluses and pricks

The delicatest , slenderest of fibrous wicking wicks

The feet of little words go flitting there among the sticks

Escaping to some other page of ice cream cones and licks.