In the Grip

Oh, what an endless breathless questing joy,
what picaresque peregrinations, what shenanigans,
what precarious peccadilloes, what impresarios,
what waddling doing-my-own-thing armadillos,
what mysteries beneath, behind mysteries,

what little shining glints of clarity glimpsed
in thick shoals, in thickets of thoughts,
what murky visibility in the Bermuda Triangle of desire,
what a vast sea of stars, unreachable,

what a cacophony, what a riotous rambunctious rumpus,
what a pixilated jigsaw puzzle piecing itself,  
what a compendium, what a procession of faces,
what a caravanserai, what a tintinnabulum,

what a motley mix, what tricks, what mavericks,
what a menagerie of mannequins, naked,
waiting for tiaras, waiting for gowns,
what a glorious ball, what foibles, what fillips,

what a frolic, what funicular flights of fancy,
what a kaleidoscope, what a prism,
what a querulous quivering paroxysm,
what a wrestle with wayward, willful words,

what little ecstasies, what a poet’s delight
playing magician, conjuring lines like coins
in a spreading swell swelling spelling spell
as if the poet knows something about poetry,
something about life, what a poet’s life!