An unserious drift can't be caught;
on wet streets, lamplight flies back
into driven, faulty faces.
Strain nights colander your luck
leaving noodley, steamed water
to scald your hands.
Direct paths once tipped calm fingers,
typed into soggy garden beds.
Now, shoots are shot with dead lacerations.
Amateur unpaid glinter, your eyes
made possibility music until the chairs were sold
from under your inactive ass.
Who is to judge these marks
until the new forensic speech-takers
glide meaning into every near miss.
Roman Ryan 