Rising above the level of the sea
Altitude comprises a tonic and a bee
Elevation is a platform set on a table on plateau
It’s not like anything else
But it is like a stick that looks like a person that looks like its busy
Rising and rising, the level is changed
Is it the moon, pulling the edges of the grain?
The beat is a pitch, soccer on foot
The flowers are buildings
Architected for sooth
The wind is an eagle
Sees me from so far away
This bread is a body, or was it a mind?
I think the messiah must have been a mythology of a reality of a city-state
A person as a place
Mapped like a territory
Fortunate sun, with a father too far off to remember or see
Time always forgets
To bring a gift on a birthday
Because the actual birth
Is not documented or pictured
On a ship’s log
From Germany to New York
In 1958
With part of the family
Is it a family?
What is a family?
It’s a memory that remembers when its history started
Because history is a cup of coffee that was brewed this morning
Milk and sugar, please
Because otherwise it’s too dark
And possibly too bitter, I’m not willing to risk it
And the future is a glass of whiskey, a little too full, with only one piece of ice
The ice is melting and the whiskey is getting a little more calm
But it’s watered down, because it’s a ship
With a displacement of such volumes of ocean
Yet rising above the level of the sea
Roman Ryan 