Clarified excrement remains its own
extremis; while it may be the beginning
at the end, shortcuts to goodness are
wooded, indoor, frozen breezes.
Embark on darkness and middle up
in night. The fair plan plays side by
snide with the knowing analyst, a
glimmer shimmying up the stolid pine.
Sap goes to hand, sprinkles into eyes,
and reads itself into a stupor; stoop
lower and find chips inside boards,
two by four by no more chords.
Sing into seasons, ringing blurs into
reasons, channeling flannel onto
wool, hillside shepherd into
deserted, shipless oceans.
Roman Ryan 