When the kettle gains mineral
the mouth's ephemeral liquid
feel seals up into itself, an implicit
rejection of illicit connections
to concoction action-inaction.
To drink is a tiny sink, a bowl
full of mouth, eyed like teeth
and barred like ears unwilling
to fear the highest levels of
sound argument, unbound thinking.
A long line delineate inertia
from momenta, plurals from
scurrilous ecumenical claws,
murals from graffiti and guffaws
from puffins and parrots and laws.
Don't end-around rhyme on
the counter -- that's the place
to sit, when bar stools drool
on themselves, they cannot be
blamed -- it is nature's nurturing will.
Roman Ryan 