motion is an ocean for emotion
to tideline the widelines of the worldmine
a cradle for fables to run out of stables
among the dust and distant epochal cockles
fractions can't fathom the traction; here's action
mathless and bathless the sweatness is wetness
guided by fireballs to explode only when in the presence of a great ode
and long lines make songs fine and meander the pronged rind
at the center of rings, the holder of things, a molder of flinging the ear
beyond the sight with every might and also at night
each meadow and breadfruit and treebeard and bluebell
wind rustles without bustle and hustles without muscles
as we find ourselves naked, outside the outside, under and between the sun
Roman Ryan 