My First Poem

"Sonata for the Musicians of 3"
Op. 1a

Whisper willows wisked upon the brush of the boisterous billowing burlap window
The moon hung high:
"Hi!" it sang as if fell upon the dusty covered must of the cobwebic accounts of Summer
The intimation of the moment rang like a bird screeching the song of a
powerderish white dew on the brow of a swallow
All the while I thought:
"Is it not strange that the child of the broken bottle-lapped woman cries with a smash?"