As a chill passes over my skin
Standing the hairs
Goosing the bumps
A deep breath
Wider eyes
Warmth returns, fourth width
Only a fly, landing adjacent to my elbow
Returns the uncertainty of the temperate moment
Juicing, peels, ripeness of the day
Passive voice to match the delivery vehicle
Blinking lights, without heat
Is it ninety eight point six?
Not nearly.
Rather forty five degrees
In some units
An angle for slicing rights
Awkwardly capitalized
Lowering cases, inferior court
To this place where the laws might be written
But not very well
The impulse to examine, trounced by the instinct to feel
Easier than doing the left, right, course correction
It's too hot and I'm a partisan of the cold!
shout the self-oriented; board games are inhumane.
Dried out, husks, with consciences unexamined:
Why look closely when it's easy to be far away?
Don't ask the weather people, they say thirty percent
With a chance of acute, triangles sharpened
It's not raining right now, but that ark won't build itself.
Roman Ryan 