Standing doom only gives up its downs
hugging rooms with floored feet
shrugging offs
shouldering ceilings
tarrying at the phrase
leveling sentences at structures
to make to say funk
for a cause to preposition
it's a nearness conflated with
an effect stood to the side.
None of that shatters
the way a blank page scatters
under ink and pen and concentric tension
spurned, previously, and now accepting the burns
ripping apart ungained space
and worrying not about definitional pace
where gait is concerned, worms wiggle,
and where states have been turned
seasons niggle, reddening eaves with blood rain,
denying horror: it's just a stain.
Where the cubic millimeters stranded themselves
it's an island, well-empired,
defended from perversion by subversion
and subjected to context by regressions
statisticians play the insurance game
to ensure securities
make singular singularity
and plural a thing that cannot evenly remember
its odd past.
Roman Ryan 