It's not despondence.
That's when I can't see
at any angle
the insides of me.
It's a tragic rending
of the fabric
of quilted
time.
Where the cross-stitch
feels the gate switch
and all the sheep
escape.
It's looking it in the face
and sight your eyes
both of them;
framed across my glasses,
glass.
And where did it go?
It's right here.
It's heavy,
but it doesn't sit.
It's gravy,
but I won't eat.
But I will eat.
And there it is.
Indigestion.
The sense of
a bending
to a sleep discalmed;
disclaimed:
where
goes to when
deep
in the glen.
And here I am
in the grass
with evening
dewdrops -
a metaphor
and really
three letters long
s
a
d.
Roman Ryan 