The Charitable Puncheon (Sestina Form)
Somedays, I walk without feet
and instead, tread bare into the window
knowing that I do not have to watch
but be scenery; qualifying the quagmire
before me, a vassal that drinks itself narrow
of one good quarantine; a locksmith figurine
causing rupture to the pointed blout, another figurine
whose burden is too close to his snout, his feet
that tremble in warm water for minutes and lapse narrowly
in blood crevice, creating a circular, blind-shut window.
The painting is one revealed scrapings lost touch for quagmires
and especially in turn, for peasants earning royalties over watching
the dirt stack-up in ritual houses: sole purpose: watching
fairy’s turn single blocks of mertose from their figurine
gallop to an unsurprising jovial corset, smashed between two fondling quagmires.
You find this funny: I dare say it is… my pocket-watch, waiting for feet
to reach time in another time from this time, all due to imbreachment of mother’s window.
If we were all so stupid, I believe we would find an end, though it be narrow
to one’s harm in traverse and calling. You would like to find me: come narrow
through my dust and feed on the sucktions; forget the time on my watch,
I’ll always be happy to flavor up your salvatories in case my window
drops or stops at my bare chest – the key still has its lock, figures!
Ha ha, that’s enough of the rub, get in the tub, with me, and wash your own feet.
We are all that master hanging for furrows of languid squishies and celestial quagmires;
so slap yourself in blankets and praise them quagmires
down to the last kerchunk bunk, bend narrow
like a humble dog should and lick our non-captioned (the closed, the open) feet
like bumblebees invigorating Zen monk head, space watching
for more space to feel empty. Do we feel empty as God figurines
placed in the forest to breed animal moss, or as watching windows
to record our introspection through bottled jars? Will the window
move to the neighbors chicken or on to any greater surface: the sloppy slopes of quagmire
my neck, a sickled desire (inhabited again for future
reference), flower figurines
or a peach without scent: we can be sure of the misshapen body, narrow
as if full in relative terms of Ferlinghetti bridges, or in the silent watching.
Crossover in its explicable bearing and bear the truth of your feet:
you are, and that become, to be and see this figurine feet
as your illusive nature, the empty quagmire, not unlike your first window,
but dirtier and shallower; narrower to the second you stop watching.