Voices in funnels, a trickle down of their futurity,
Dropping my sights — now they’re rising
— the fastest way to earn points. And yet
We’re surrounded by a new opening line:
We write poems for children, progeny.
Forward, a debit resonance favors our successors —

We’re nothing but their voices that bell without words now.

Make a difference, make us an offer
As Baby Wateau vanishes
& the cake sale fails — vanished out of memory & sight as I am now.