Give me a poem about being interrupted plz or at least a start

That agreeable feeling we haven't yet been able

to convert into words to our satisfaction

despite several conscious attempts to do so

might prove in the end to be nothing

more than satisfaction itself, an advanced

new formula just sitting there waiting to be

marketed as such: Let my logo be the couch

I can feel it pulse as the inconstant moon

to which I've come to feel attached continues to pull

away from earth at a rate of 1.6 inches

every solar year: Let my logo be the couch

where you merge into nights until you can't

up from the shadows of a factory warehouse

in historic Secaucus built on top of old swamp-

land I can feel it: Let my logo be the couch

where you merge into nights until you can't

even remember what you wanted to begin with.

Let my slogan be the scrapes of an infinite

catalogue's pages turning over and over until you

find it again.

In the air above Secaucus

a goldfinch, state bird of New Jersey, stops dead

midflight and falls to the asphalt of a final

parking lot. Where it lands is a sacred site

and earth is covered in them. Each is like

the single seed from which an entire wheat field

generates. This happens inside oneself

so one believes oneself to be the owner of it.

From the perimeter of the field one watches

as its workers undertake their given tasks:

some cut the wheat, some bundle it; others picnic

in the shade of a pear tree, itself a form of

labor, too, when unfolding at the worksite.

A gentle pride engilds this last observation like

sun in September. Because this happens

inside oneself one feels one must be its owner.

But call out to the workers, even kindly,

and they won't call back, they won't even look up

from their work.

There must be someplace

else where life takes place besides in front of

merchandise, but at the moment I can't think of it.

In the clean white light of the market I am where

I appertain, where everything exists

for me to purchase. If there's a place of not meaning

what you feel but at the same time meaning

every word, or almost, I might have been taught

better to avoid it, but

here I go again

on my own, going down the only road I've ever

known, trusting Secaucus's first peoples

meant something specific and true when they fused

the words seke, meaning black, and achgook,

meaning snake, together to make a compound

variously translated as "place where the snake

hides," "place of black snakes," or, more simply,

"salt marsh."

Going moon over the gone marsh

Secaucus used to be, I keep making the same

mistake over and over, and so do you, slowly

speeding up your orbital velocity, and thereby

increasing your orbital radius, just like Kepler

said you would, and though I keep trying not

to take it to heart, I can't see where else there is

to go with it. In German, a Kepler makes caps

like those the workers wear who now bundle

twigs for kindling under the irregular gloom. One looks

to be making repairs to a skeletal umbrella

or to the thoughts a windmill entertains by means

of a silver fish. Off in the distance, ships tilt

and hazard up the choppy inlet. Often when I look

at an object, I feel it looking back, evaluating

my capacity to afford it.

Maybe not wanting

anything in particular means mildly wanting

whatever, constantly, spreading like a wheat

field inside you as far as the edge of the pine

forest where the real owners hunt fox. They keep you

believing what you see and feel are actually

yours or yours to choose. And maybe it's this

belief that keeps you from burning it all down.

In this economy, I am like the fox, my paws no good

for fire-starting yet, and so I scamper back

to my deep den to fatten on whatever I can find.

Sated, safe, disremembering what it's like

up there, meaning everywhere, I tuck nose under tail

after I exhaust the catalogues, the cheap stuff

and sad talk to the moon, including some yelping but

never howling at it, which is what a wolf does.