Things of my world, thwart, solid, chockablock,
That I was wont lightly to wield and dandle,
Now, button-bungler, fool of lid, latch, lock,
Thumbfoundered, I must own you all too much to handle.
With dexter maladroit sadly at outs,
Unruly point scrawls to a standstill, staggered,
While captain left, sidelined in swaddling-clouts,
Bears silent witness from my lap, a laggard.
Old lover of this world and its hard lines,
Spendthrift of news, unapt at splints and slings,
It keeps its healing secret all alone,
Biding that hour when, bone rejoined with bone,
It sallies forth, takes pen, and straight consigns
To bright black ink this new beginning: Things.