I am not
recovered from the
hollow purpose of life
that makes my neck crick
and my hair fall out that droops
my mouth and hangs my liquid eyes
to gaze above the heads for hope and see
that no one else is either at the garden café
eyes wormhole: three musicians
hair & mouth wormhole: gre[wh]y / has Daddy left us?
life wormhole: Sunday afternoon
others & talking to myself wormhole: after all?
pointlessness wormhole: now, have I forgotten anything
realisation wormhole: lo
settling wormhole: the stance of Buscema // qualitatively