What did vagueness ever do for you,
which way did it direct you to get you
where you may have been trying to go,
a failing sense of misdirection
raining blows of dew convection,
not a moment's morning more
at the darkness lighted door;
I promised a way sideways that
we could both shuffle together,
a sort of sock hope from one
state to the next, devolving
from an elliptical orbit to
a sense of ellipsis: draining
what may have been a
comprehensible story
into the southern hemisphere's bathtub;
Great intentions are a prideful prejudicial
way of seeing an expectation,
and you are lost at sea on higher ground
should you give in to the wishes
that blow upon you from every direction;
I write another instruction manual
I won't read as one
I fail to heed the rules as they flash
as additional rubs on a magicless lamp
folding its light and scent
in a series of experiences, scenes,
that I would have not asked for,
given a menu, and as that is
not how it goes, so it goes
is too cynical an asterisk
for a night that may have been
wordless, but gave way when the
clouds blocked out the constellations,
another series of anthropocentric
narratives that I can't let myself requite.
Roman Ryan 