Uprightness, meet stone.
Your historian, if you're plucky.
Standing, you are blown down,
a standard unit of wiped-away
grime. Some grime molds, a
spore and a shape that rock
might take, given conditions
popular and communicable.
It's like the asteroid belt, never
worn. An homage to something,
at this point, pointed around the
observers who might glean a
sense of what transpired. Clarity
is the crown of a legacy, the clown
of the fricassee, the component
of the meal not eaten, shown.
So your body walked. So your
blood talked. So your brows
were caulked. You may have
been raised once, but it is
out of your hands, the next
raisings. And so your anxious
hands, try to hand themselves
to hands that will lift and
carry your boulder-shaped
hands.
Roman Ryan 