The mere woods wander
emerge, planless,
to a blossom,
a season,
a pause,
with and without reverence;
stories are Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs
and the narrator is hungry;
sweat shined Abraham's brow
and Isaac didn't learn paternal trust;
spirits demand belief
no matter how secular;
I am fear's glove
and a worn-out hand;
the return, the last scupper,
drains our ship by design
and our minds are fealty engines
with loyal warship dreams;
can this be by choice or nature;
false questions framed by semicolons;
and one must become an observer,
a subject,
objections,
and all the while
hold up your cup of rancid blood
and drink to every crime.
Roman Ryan 