My numb legs dream nimble
and wonder at the ligamental sense
of memoir in the breeze. Southwest
wind blows mountain range dilation
dry eyeward. I would like to cry; the
glaciers will not admit additional sweat.
The minute is sweeter than the hour,
under over cast. Space rains dropless
gravity on the faces of the past. May the
new sonnets develop a modem art, routed
from the deep internet to the shadow of a
penumbra of a doubtful glance. Each leaf
could become a tonnage sheaf, shopped
across the ocean to prove that that which
is stolen matches that vagary of an article
whose nakedness personified is the emperor
of all indignities. Taken is a place that can
only be reached by ownerships. I am not my
self. Today and all days. And in not being thus,
that self can blow away in this gusty, desert-
bound afternoon.
Roman Ryan 