Don't go looking for a story here, because the poem doesn't offer one. Its lines read like a pile of images that never quite connect: roses on a door, gusts of wind, a rib-cage behind a fire, a tuxedo, a beachball, a zebra, alabaster in Marrakesh. Each phrase is vivid on its own, but the grammar keeps slipping away from logic, and the title, "Not This," seems to warn you off hunting for a tidy meaning.
What holds it together is sound. Words chime and bump against each other: "guts" and "gusts," "rare" and "errors," "rib-cage" and "rambles," "martial" and "tuxedo." The poem seems to care more about how language feels in the mouth than about what it reports. So the speaker's feeling is hard to pin down. Judging by the surprising jumps, the mood is playful and a little restless, with a slightly eerie edge from the fire and the bones. It's best read like a collage: let the pictures and rhythms pile up and see what they stir in you.