An elderly policeman stands beside my statue of him.
Ah, impersonal, navy-blue, go away.

I am careful to pounce on this wickedness,
this new episode revolving around the teapot.
I have clawed my way into it!
I ceremoniously avoided mentioning my nail file because,
to me, the wiles of its stem
are over there, in the heart of the periphery.

The bar of soap next to the carafe
is getting on my nerves, I am disabled
by the slender blowing of that cucumber
and am forced to hiccup at the reality of my flashlight.
I sense disaster as a wasp flits hieroglyphics on my vision:
I pop him a good pop, insert the corpse into a volume of love
   poems.

Suddenly I feel silly and ill. This apartment
has embarked, it cheeps out of the harbor,
vibrating, groping, with reveries clinging to the hull
it is still more than half empty.
How shallow this peeking, this passage
from the faded perfume of solid ground.
Someone has forgotten his crutch—
now I have placed my hands in my pockets.