Whiling away the hours
The underwater powers don't
Keep a floating head
Above the waters.
Despite the strength
Of lighter gasses
The rising turgid sludge,
It passes down the line
The weight and meter
Of the feeder, upriver
Like jingling keys
Along greased splines.
The weight that has
Been meted out was
No equity. And hence
Propound the piling
On top of ready piles,
Ready piles on the ground.
It's all around here
Now. It's ailing, aiming down.
