When a poem's coming on
I go looking for pain
A hunted refraction will mirage its name
Across otherwise happy contentment
And its little purple petals
How does yellow strike me?
Let me count the dawn's ways
Upper branches sway bud promises
Trunks are standing mirrors
And the lawn and the table
Wonder what it's like to be wild
The grass is grayer on the other side of
These standing waves
When blue mates with black
The morning's echolocation
Dislocates sounds from song
Our gaze avoids our haze
It's a dada game, pre-played
By paternalistic geese
Hisses rebound across childhood hills
Fracturing what was once called the
Future into a moment to our cloisters
Roman Ryan 