Instead of writing in my journal today,
I will write plain English poetry
until the ducks deliver the river
to the table where I sit.
Cobble tones resonate with
runner lows. In front of the
place where Sunday people gather
to derive the formula for a happy
hour, I am considering what it takes
to carry joy toes to nose. An internal
project? Projection from outside? A
dichotomy-resistant property? I am
tempted to string out the West's barrier
method and barb my wires for protection.
But when I slip and nearly fall, I am reminded:
treasure is a matter of luck, when gold retains
its value or stardust becomes again itself.
Roman Ryan 