“Variety of keys, ways to be”

— of course these could never appear, scratchy lilt, meager sauces. The idea to be… well, you know that old story. No ending, or many. And all the signs to fill in along the way. It’s a revolving door, and no poets stop it, but you’re, at least, dribbling a little something in the corner. “If there were only a way to leverage this to make it more.” So what is outdoing it there, anyway, poking around, making it new, or whatever. But do, whatever you do, look.