Pallor erases as the surface recants the story of a dying son exploding and swirling until everything is gone. What's wrong? What will we be? Skipping and flipping, eroding streets away—express right away; escape. Riddles of truth and space. Meet me at the fall away tree at bay. Seagulls swooping round. The wind begins to creak and quake. Writhing, spinning sweeps of darkness . . . those wafts of lightness. Medieval assaults from that bloke who insults. Swimming and swimming away, a way at bay, at bay. Instead, spread (and fled from me). Tea is ready and hold steady cuz you will obey the way I say. Reap your keep. You’re dead.