Galilean analog goes the Archimedean distance:
I see you love Aristotle, that's pretty and shuttered
In the drawer you cupped, by the board, booked
For a seventeen year stay. Dither further,
Thus will your hairs find their gray. Under
Rasps, vocal chaos timorously articulates
Green velvet dreams with sharp edges
(on yellow vestiges), dripped icicly into
a water pile one on top of the other.
Physical inscription, you merged your
fame with holly-drained wood, sun-sweated
Palms deny grip to the camera while aesthetic
Chimeras spawn imitation shame and original grins.
Roman Ryan 