There is a map in the bottom of the puddle where the trees say their prayers to a feather machine that shuffles thoughts in the inversion of a reflection like paper cutouts inside a jukebox on which are written figures and diagrams to follow the fracture of roots and branches. This is the latitude where a man stumbled through. He was trying to shave in the gleam of its surface before he spoke with selected clouds. And after he looked through the opening curtain, what happened underneath, what leaked into a pool? Don’t try and search for him or your eyes might tumble after. No lifeguard has a tower by the puddle, no lighthouse rotates a beacon. There is a map in the bottom of the puddle where the forlorn pebbles do piano variations and silly imitations of the stars. The feather machine does not fly but only sways. Don’t try to look at it or walk on it. You will be swimming through this ocean most of forever. We will tell stories about you, how you were looking through the open curtains and you were just about to see it and you were just about to see it. Now you are falling through a puddle.