ponder the lily, how she goes, neither does she gild

lilypads, what do they

touch like, slimy? we like

them speaking about the surfaces,

the sunlike either to build a catch

to see the pond floor past, or

the sun to make a mirror

to see the lily flowers each twice

how we like this nice difference,

switched lilies, the pad wired

subliminally to the pond floor, how

we like to be upstairs from ponds,

looking down like at a lily chandelier

top and to see the fish from here

glitzing like guests like we

are the privileged children to watch

them in their mysterious like lines

which unseen move them along

I'll like to put my foot like lilypad

just on top of the view, wet

but not in, not washed but neat

and rest my lily weight on it

engage the pleasure of not being there

but not being absent either, pond

and my pads and no print and chafes

the glass to repetitive protest yet

then is still yet not without response