He lay plunged in the funnel of a beanbag,
The glass in his hand as deep as a fjord.
The other went out to answer the telephone,
Leaving both doors open so he could see
A left arm and half a ribcage
But no hand. On the far wall, glazed and framed,
A right shoulder and arm crushing flowers
Against a breast. He reached for the bottle again,
And all the vertical lines of the house moved
A little forward, and left. They dangled and waltzed,
Hanging brittle, ready to crash and split
Every straight chair in the room, leaving the halves
To hop away two-legged, leaving
The walls of the house wedged open
To the four winds and the polar light.