Logs jammed against the chest
a chest that just wants to shut
and treasure a little eye.
Do you know the cruffin can?
It lives in dreary pain.
Layers and players and sports
shorts and mayors and warts.
Will we descend below the
level of the bellows?
The dog licks his paws
and the switches to his empty
domesticles. Will those claws
ever be clean again? Green
on a six-pane window. Crow
landing. The afternoon is
not an object, but it stretches
out in a mind as if it were
made to remind the folds
in which it resides that
all gray matter must
wear down.
Roman Ryan 