I think there’s a problem
in my walls: clicking, voices,
the flavor of flowers.
I hear Italian radio, dubbed popular
songs in the other room.

The violet walls shake like a speaker membrane.
The clicking of tuning knobs, switches, antennas
scraping the studs.  It sounds like
cursing and goes on all the time.  The house
broadcasts bad memories.

I think there’s a problem in me, too, now.
I hear myself speaking with an accent,
call the pain in my ankles
“my grandmother’s
disease,” can’t keep my hands

off switches and knobs.
Turn them
incessantly.  Try to communicate
with others.  Try to keep
from crawling in there with them.

To try and break the spell, I’ll go outside
undressed, nude as a buttonmaker protesting
the trend toward zippers and elastic waistbands.
It will be dramatic.
It will be seen as having a subtext by some,

but I’m just trying to find a place
where I can’t hear whatever’s in the walls.
I’m not that crazy.  I’ll leave my clothes behind
because I don’t dare open the closet,
and haven’t done so in weeks.

Once out here, I’m relieved to find
that out here the only voices are in plain English
and I understand them at once.  That clicking
out here is clearly just handcuffs.
That pain in my ankles is because the cop tripped me

to make me go down.  I don’t care, and I’m only crying
because things are making sense again,
and I didn’t even need a radio to tell me that.
Between my sobs I’m making up a song.  It’s for the cops —
the refrain:  “Don’t go in there, and block your ears if you do.”