The thing you stared at most in your days
will determine how you are remembered:
images are potent,
distilled beverages,
that get the memory drunk,
and imbue your hue
to those who take
their shots
right after yours
I see a rusty staircase,
intense sun and its hazes
a few out
of
place
plants,
the light light light
corner
light
to make a wood building
into a fancy
something or other
rest, rant, eat, chant,
where the iced tea gets low,
a song comes from above
and reminds me
of an odd night,
the first viewing of that film
about that guy
who was trying to get away
from society
and mostly his family
while I was wondering
what the translation for red was
and recovering from a party
in which there was only one thing
on a simpler
twenty something mind
here
without you,
excepting
the memory
and those promises
Looking back out that glass pane
there is a chimney below and among
the trees
and I am reminded
of Vincent
and wondering once again
if language has enough color
to paint the world on the other
side
of the transparent gutter,
taking the rain that rarely comes
back to the rose bush
while I see leaves
and remember the first poems
I wrote with the candle lit
and wonder,
does it all come across,
what do you hear
when there are no voices
except the ones in my ear
Roman Ryan 