lonely escherian skeletons
rib a lake into canters,
their bones complicate its old face.
they crosshatch into tigers,
trellis through pregnant angles,
a clash of stripes on curved stilts
that somehow manage to glide.
these songful sways,
such curvy green-gold-blues,
tease the senses like a protean harp,
strum spine, gaze and chest.
you, too, they sing, a lonely skeleton,
footsteps that spread out, branching,
scions of symbol and deed,
to ripple the page.
The sort of thing we ought to think on when we hear "liquidity."