Roman Ryan

A final stumble perambulates through the 
candle of the afternoon, flickering flickering
snickering snickering onto the table briefly

Until the breeze decides to be the bay
bringing the sweat of the spray unto 
the noses of the cars, baptizing these
cars in the salt of their demises

Walking cemetery walking toward
the marble quarry filled with
tombstone futures assured 

By the hand of a hammer
and the claws of letterers 
who only know names
and dates