Narrator, your carrots are garrots,
stealing dandies from city streets,
one turtle-walking down time
at a time. Time compresses the
hearer, demanding either confession
or action, and to tell is to fail to
show. Showers of done flowers
makes bee dancers us all, glowing
with honey golden purpose, offering
offerings to the civic story board.
That's the compulsion, the pulse
of compression, repressing the
urge to useless rest, the fruitless
jest against progress, that anti-
hourglass sense of hyphen resist-
ance. Spare us. We have been plotted,
jotted, fully rotted sentences,
composted into paragraph boxes,
justified for use in the meal
worm's feast.
Roman Ryan 