Rummaging flows of responsibilities
teeter the rough edges of life in a small bucket.
A, then B, then P will request S, but no F.
Rubbery waves groove the elegance of madness.
If he falls in sick, if he falls in the pool,
he shows us the world spinning backwards,
and the tops of mountains laugh viciously.
Art is gone. He has a song, a sad song.
stillfugue 