(with profuse apologies to Wallace Stevens)
I
Among snowy Styrofoam wadding,
The only moving thing
Was the eye over the assembly instructions.
II
I was of three minds,
None of which
Can make sense of this gibberish.
III
The mind whirled in a pool of flop sweat.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a screwdriver
Are one.
A man and a screwdriver and a flesh wound
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of indecisions
Or the beauty of irritations,
Rod A in the right bracket B
Or the wrong one.
VI
Translucent washers filled the floor
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of 24 hex bolts
Crossed them, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the snarling
An indecipherable curse.
VII
O thin men of AVEC Home Storage,
Who do you imagine enjoys this?
Do you not see how fingers
Are thumbs, become two left feet,
Of the fools about you?
VIII
I know noble aspects
Of lucent, inescapable domesticity;
But I know, too,
That tradesmen are involved
In what I know.
IX
When Step 7 flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many tea breaks.
X
At the sight of the spare bits
(I’m sure that’s not right),
Even the bawds of euphony
Would blush at the swearing.
XI
I took another cig break
For self-reproach.
Once, a fear pierced me,
In that one mistook
The shadow of a missing page
For Step 8.
XII
It is not collapsing.
Nobody is dying.
XIII
It can be Sunday afternoon all day
Every day dodging
All the things to do, you know.
The damn thing sits
In the corner. Mocking.