I dance you to sleep.
It's a low complement,
our substitute good:
jelly for peanut stutters.
That's how my voice
gets horses
beyond the mountain
defined by the wild
not by the domestic fire.
Uncultivated hands watch
rap on wood
steer by the night of the loon
and find themselves lightening
as thunder picks up their slack.
Drums, in other blurs,
stack sound where lucidity
may have breathed according
to a serene nature
an obscene myth
delved beneath improper prepositions
and unbothered politicians.
Legally, sleep is death.
Govern well, judicious puns.
Your stun fun runs
at the very ideal
stark green living pine tips.
Roman Ryan 