Who can be found when the ground
is always on the move?
When was our beginning,
our mythical tutelage
in being and dying and time?
Carried on breezes and stampedes,
the myriad stifled voices suffer
the indecencies of fathers
and the colonialism
of paternity.
And as natural is a square
to artificial's rectangle
family is a tear-filled stare
into history's greying shapes.
The future is a graveyard
for grandfathers and grand fictions:
stories are kin twice removed
from the soil's digestion of bone.
Advanced greenery signals
that life is a parcel from death
delivered to the doorstep
of survival
and breaking
and yarns.
Roman Ryan 