How has it come to this complicated juncture
Where the things created are things only seeded
The planting a month before germination
With a farmer's patience, I sit and wait,
Insinuating at every passer by that they
Trod the ground that is meant to reveal
A present day one day that these minutes planned
Untoward feeling in my chest ringing, a phone call
That I won't pick up; evasion, revision, caller ID
I'm hiding from wind in this boulder's lee
Without the territorial diction
All the comes hence, today is a fiction
Roman Ryan 