Cataclysmic: he sat alone,
no matter his attempts
at friendliness.

Herons and wagtails flock
the hippopotamus's indifferent
hide, but only the disliked
came to him--

only mosquito larvae
swam in his shallow stagnancy.

And a group fell
by, ticking to its own
balance,

but he could not grasp
the medium that framed
and made them gravitate
so, orbit and revolve together,
like marbles circling
a dip in a tarp
that some person or meme
weighs down.

And does a smile
put us in the same system?
And what makes an idea draw?

And so he sat on,
to thwart company, so that soon
he would not care.

He grew careless,
and his mind lived
in the mountains.

A beckon is like a rustle
of dry leaves or a drip
of dew, and landscapes
refract the same light
as faces.

He left the path
and hiked upriver,
where the resting Gerrid said,
"My kind all dent the surface,
and the unseen lives beneath,
yet we feel them somehow."

And so he dove below,
and made a stir,
revolutionary
to the once-firm plane.