At the Inverted Fountain (UCLA) I sat here as an undergraduate for hours, the water tinkling like a muted xylophone above the background hiss and glug, a voice for every stone. This artificial stump of stream sounded as real as any other, though flowing not to sea but to a central well, through pumps, and back again to overflow the concrete lip from the encircling trench. It even smelled like a river, mineral-sweet with a tang of leaf, but now it's dry, its deep periphery a reservoir of stagnant water where strands of algae flutter above the bottlecaps and newspapers stuck to the bottom, with a few coins. Its dark, wet stones have turned dull mustard from dried scum. II I think of running water as the world's white noise meant to cleanse the way between us, the Tao of the inevitable running down, the ultimately indiscriminate lover who flatters every shape by imitation. Nothing is humbler. I flip a coin and make a wish-- it bounces off the rocks. III My right thumb turns to glass, pools in my palm, my crystal hand drops with a splash on paving bricks, my head bursts into droplets darkening my shirt. Only a pile of soggy clothes remains. I fill the fountain like a symphony, each resisting edge like a reed for my continuous song, my liquid euphony.
C.E. Chaffin's Questions:
1) Does it need sections?
2) Are there too many commas?
3) Can you picture the fountain?