Tchotchke

My abecedarian fingers Numb to their recalculations and lexicons I brush slimly my thumb through each And clasp myself in fives or nines It sinks its full weight like an equivocate clasp One gaucherie to an eldritch comeuppance A padlock lip nimble and pivoted like sickness Delicate but ultimately dependent upon timing The human stomach is a pendulum I feel mine pulse as cynosure cascaded I cherish extemporaneous occurances Empyrean palisades and medications I collect as a dictator my tintinnabulations Of etiolated tchotchke and clamp my fistful Stumpside in the rivulet, Adamic clay bathes Of my clasping reconnaissance of fives and nines.