Specificity brings the math-linguist to denote analytical moundrests
for the buried red dawn you predicted at last light,
at waking up, thoughts can attend to glorious luminescence at
the peak of its mirrored woodened greenglories,
or perhaps follow the pre-oxford comm/a/nd
to a fruitful look without a response: the rest of the
soul unfettered by knowing, gently ye make the garden
a home whichever street on which you walk,
foxes or nowhere to be seen,
a shadow under a sun watched by nothing and all;
yet yet, set set, there may be outrecourse to
blouts of grout-meals, coffee grounds only,
no hot water for the lightlessness, as you and I and
all remember when it was horizontal, no ceiling too small,
for a catatoniopoly on hopeful music,
bound to not not, dualism's scourge,
but but: that was nowhere close today.
Roman Ryan 