I long for some, even

one would be a beginning,

not this long flat stretch

of just me and my improvising

of waste, of a kind of heroic

negligence that life does not

appreciate. My loved one

is wobbling—O creme de menthe!

See, I am making my own

interference, jerked stratagem—

her overcoat, my cottage.

Why are we so bad? I hear them

faintly knocking, neutral ducks,

and I am reprimanded.

I am thinking “scalloped potatoes”

are of absolutely no use.

I’m thumping my canteen

and pointing at my nose.

Yes, I lied about “her,”

there wasn’t one, but for

that moment a gourd drifted

down the chimney on the pretext

of weeding a peninsula

and nourishing the articulation

of a single bud. Am I forgiven?

Forgotten? This is the constellation

of my own bewilderment. Please,

someone interrupt me.

Hence, whatever, reverts.