Whirl, words,
your sentience is
a sentence away from
the next para
graphical representation;
All is a sun-dried meta
cognition, the depth of
recognition that flashes
to the next line, the text tine,
and poisons the spine with
its sublime cart, wheeled and
only briefly kneeled on the
energetic forges that force
statistics to bare teeth and
walk the coals with its bare
feats, unsureness cleaved
from the act of act of act;
Mark the curds, cheese will butter
before it churns in the sun--
that's a carbon unrecyclable,
a methanous plastic with verb
forms that reject that noun for
another adjective; fast fall,
sour call, and each reverses
to make figures out of not
yet speech.
Roman Ryan 