It is the cocktail hour.
for sneaking up the chimney, bounding
I can't eat a mountain of ice cream.
Just give me the cherry on top!
I can't make a living at poetry;
I still like to break the ice
Of puddles where I can.
At the junction down a ways
I'm a bull in a china shop;
I want to brag my Sun
outpouring from my eye
could bring a stubborn bud to blossom.
The solemn silence of my street informs
This lonely miser of his well-deserved
Christmas Eve: white diamonds glittering more
Than I have earned in all my muddy seasons.
To shed all pretense to being good and great;
And make open confession of oneself
Of all one's lifetime of triteness and lies;
May a sprig of new green emerge
from every branch and twig
that I have pruned and hacked;
The trouble with truffles
When you have the snuffles
Is a mouthful of phlegm.
Me know the names of things,
But not yet the feelings in their beings.
Me know you have to hold a thing,