I see hands: they are eyes,
retrofitted with digits,
ready to tell you
noon is the highest
but twelve is well before three.
Under the circular,
advertisements time the space:
from when to here
can our fen be fear,
a home in minutes
minutely bleared.
May the wishful
sin against circles,
pi times pi is over
the meters per
second
per second
that beat the drum of fall.
Singular moment, can you
advance to single point?
Now is a denial of the obvious:
obsequious mandarin,
you ruled that twelve inches
was a non-standard shoe.
Can imperium Romanum
go back to the Gibbon,
and make hay out of so-
called history?
It's a phone bank,
credited with
another mouse
and another way
out of separation rage
and into contact fights
that ensure the meaningfulness
is drained away
at nine ninety nine a month.
Roman Ryan 