Or if due to pressure of foreclosure
I fail to quantify the beads on their string
Must I be gashed by the moments
I’m rendered hopeless in, what’s to hope for
Where every moment’s passing?
“What’s your plan?” I ask the multiverse
In verse probably, the best communication
For those difficult to understand

And you, the goose who laid the golden egg, reply:

How hard of hearing I am now,
Constantly in time to music that’s
As usual lapsed into the sort of rhapsody
Or prosody that no one can contrive
Or imagine; hence my meanings get naturally
Botched up, it’s not that I don't keep trying,
Only that when I open my mouth
All hell breaks loose — and we know where that
Comes down: all over your face

So the worlds, bundled up and hurled from space
Fall into waiting arms. You know,
Those skinny things one embraces with,
Pushes away, opens up, or folds