Continuity bleeds purple, a horror score
torn from rages and macrophages, where
fear meets ears and become meat to the
tears, shed in the backyard, rickety, filled
with shovels and ready for any sort of
dirt. That's what old wood does: it changes
from fresh scented to mouse rented, a home
and a home within a home, loam for children,
anthropom-pommed, lobbed from nests vested
over years of the compound's disinterest in
care and fair air for the inside of a dankness,
murked to the point of well-ness, jerked
into light on day at the behest of an
undermine wind.
Roman Ryan 