A seed cracks in half, there are two parts,
I bleed fragmented blood, there are many arts
cross canvas, hand and feat and form,
between youth and death, between you and my storm
I cross back into myself, knotted, squatting beside
the institutional ending, smelling the smoke astride
lungs trying not to breathe
Believe, think, feel, touch, begin,
how many many missions, earnest accidental sin,
I flew the missions and have now flown the missions,
commissions of unresolved omission,
and how lost I was is how lost I am, standing
in the forcible forest aware now how not commanding
these lips cracked up to be
I mediate myself back toward some kind of middle
not well done, not rare, not stuck to the griddle,
and the reckoning remains: swings in wind
will swing, smiles at tense have grinned,
the questions come with littler fervor and fever,
leaning only against the ground, looking not for a lever;
the minutes are days are years are eons are one more hour I see
Roman Ryan 