we were waist deep in the deep waste, searching for madrigal's shotput. he had broken some records in the early seventies, rekindled the habit recently, and was clumsier than ever. we poked through bits and chards of vinyl for the dark black heavy ball.

madrigal recanted a poem while the hard jagged plastic gnawed and scraped at our heels:

The verse I'd nurse to help us through
Would not but make the pain sting worse.
It failed us when we should have hailed
A miracle to lift the curse.

and that's how madrigal came to stick with prose for a good, long while.