All the fedge and the drammel, the fedge
and all the drammel–there is
all this up the middle this fedge
and this drammel, such that I wizen,
I wizen and waf-waf unflashly,
unflashly and unlike a diamond
with the main thing away–
the main thing the What For thing over there–
over there–
away what I did fathom and enter into wholly
what I might now fathom and wholly enter into:
out all at the corners, past a bleached fence,
around the crumbly grecktic brick-silence wall–
there was more of me to be and is
if I am he who said on a bench one deep true thing
of Emily Dickinson or Gregoire Turgeon
and if I am he whose son stood
happy, central, conversant
in Orlando Magic peejays with his hand on my shoulder
but I do not keep that here or do not stay there
instead the slog and shog of the drammel pervades
and the fedge my head amid
–for numerous sensible reasons this occurs
for countable reasons no doubt
but this is to say
I am not unaware
that all this manage of drammel and fedge,
so much copage with through the middle that mudge
and down the frown the various fraddel
is overloadedly multiplexly only shoof shuff,
mere waf-waf near drained of What truly For.
