Enter the paper holder
licked shut by lips whose provenance
is brewed beverage breakfast.
The scene dawns illuminated,
this one the first one
when I see the light as it delivers its mail,
mostly advertisements for robins
and trees
and blue.
There is a fallacy:
the followers of Nietzsche and his dead god believe
that there is the individual
there are ideals
and that is that;
no wonder each is on the edge
of private abyss.
The seers who see the other morning
can hear other people and animals and plants and rocks
and speak to them as well
in conversations in context in attention
and therefore know that to worship
is to have worse hips
than the dancers who dance.
The standers who stand to the side
write down what they wish.
Roman Ryan 