PARTY'S OVER

Oblique strategist, it’s apparent now,
the whole point of what you are
was never very sharp.

At the eleventh hour, made flat

and dizzy by the increasing slipperiness 

of sound and image, 

you stumble stoned from the mise en scène

and approach at last—the solidity

of things, 

the imperishability of one certain object: 

with your whole soul, you grasp
the handle, crank the handle, and see—

how patiently the white porcelain 

bowl—newly pregnant with her gleaming
water—always gazes back.