Is nutmeg and honey a sufficient road
To the pleasantries of the Atlas Mountains
Where equal parts sugar and spices
Match a bean, not always for breakfast
Can a clear sky over trees
Be the same above as that scorched day
Prepositionally altered, across
And at night, below lights that cannot be so far away
The wisps above are of the same substance, it’s clear
And I cannot escape the same sun
Who would?
Roast, bobbing, a reflective surface
And for some years hence
I’ll connect to those days
Taking another sip
A compendium of rays
Roman Ryan 