Are my poems long enough?

With great triteness comes anxiety splinters:
If a broom handle's wood disagrees with its direction
Fingers pick up its insufficiently sandy source.

Swept up in verse vice, it's confidence river
Brackishly backed up to over-the-shoulder oceans:
Who's done what and am I with it?

Sand bars offer grain shots to woe tide scriveners:
I decline to add more lines 
Until finer points swim upriver
Under pig-darkened skies.