Don't expect a story here. The poem works more like a handful of images thrown together, and the pleasure is in how they collide. A voyage, a storm, foam, corn, pianos: each seems to belong to a different world, yet they share a sentence as if the sea had washed them up in one pile. Even the word "ka" sits oddly in the opening line, and a reader can take it as a strange sound or a name without being told which.
The middle section does something physical. "Window / s breaking / up on the roof" splits the word itself, so the language seems to shatter along with the thing it describes. The word "doomed" gives the moment a sense of damage, though the poem never says what is lost.
The last line, "the subjective is always open," reads like a hint about how to approach all this. Judging by the fragments, the mood is unsettled but playful, and the poem seems to invite you to make your own meaning rather than find a fixed one.