because there is nothing, there is something
an engima, some colorless-genderless name
that holds me by the scruff-nape of my neck
and pours me a glass of water that now fills

fills me up more than a garish kitch thing-y
with a name and a brand and a plastic case

I sweep up the broken glass and pay,
to make it better, I'll pay for mistakes

I wish I could have a big cry or a big bitter laugh
or bind up a wound, but, they would be falsified
it'd be fake and contrived, all crocodilian in ways

but there is just nothing, which is something,
which is to say that in here there's not a thing

I will wait on the banks, I will shine my little scales,
and I will be golden, and not be a thing really, at all