Today’s Worku runs through FLUME, a technical word with a very particular shape: a channel that carries water. That specificity can be useful, but it can also expose the constraint when a poem has no believable channel, current, or downward motion for it to inhabit. The stronger entries either place the flume in an actual landscape or borrow its function as a metaphor. Mark sends failed discourse down one; auntie jj turns a shallow flume into part of a carefree beach scene. Mick’s final version takes the riskier route, using the word inside an intimate pizza-and-beer tableau where rising aroma, dripping, and condensation quietly carry the loneliness. Some channels in this round lead exactly where expected; others take a stranger turn.