Insufficient solitude cries for lost wildness.
To see, seen, is to desire to mean gamely.
Where have the hingeless poems gone?
Where are the doors, scattered like flowers
on a wild meadow of broken houses?
Whole houses are all the same:
enveloped, sealed, addressed.
The letter in the jaw creaks,
whining for a once and future roam.
Paragraphs are sentenced to four or more,
coherent, commensurate, the expected in store.
Wildness respect not even chaos.
It may surprise with mildness,
delight with childness,
or open its maw
to eat the harrowing world.
Roman Ryan 