That Will Never Be Sold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Swamp of midgets and garden snakes-
I am not well:
I send folded paper over to you as a pointed
Hullabaloo-
I am the kind of feral you wouldn’t know too
Well,
I live my life charging the pin wheeling shadows
When no one else is home,
And none of it will sell: I jack off onto the
Green carpet of prehistory-
I used to climb mountains, but now they are
Silent with expeditious snowfall all through their
Cramped dells:
And you sell your wine, and you charm the
Insatiable fraternities: I listen to the crickets repeating
In séance the vastness of my night,
All that will never be sold.