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.