He was too occupied with surfaces
To find movements crawling under,
An inner cellular stuff going wonky,
Liver floating in probabilistic death.
Death was a surface in mathematics
Backed by a northern wind howling.
A death’s surface has sprung to life
And now closing up to liver’s death.
Words are death’s probable surface,
A mathematical dead end of livers.
Words make numbers of our livers,
A label for a surface’s forgetfulness.