In the surrealist museum,
My name provides its own instruction:
As the clocks melt off the mantle pieces,
I fling open every doorway.

The garlic toasts itself,
The prosecco bleeds across tablecloths
Scattered with brow-beaten pearls.

Brief as the afternoon sun’s glimmer,
The little bird streaks
In and out
Of the banquet hall.
Behind it,
A half-remembered memory lies Gleaming.

(Did I mention, also,
The tumbling clementines
Strewn so very cornucopiously
Across indigo silk?)

I smear brie on crackling brioche,
And eat crumblingly, and
Keep one eye open.

Perhaps I am a half-eyed half-wit,
as you say.
But how else should I know, then,
when to stop licking my fingers?