Winsome loathsome tooth
longer in booth than ticked,
ticketed, timeboxed to dearth,
hearth stoned, as with comma
and edible chemical fire bones.
Clarify. Clarify. Rare ears are
rarified, as in tonally coned,
Elizabethan as a mother hen,
telling the eggs the way things
lay. Stay, please stay. We have
something going, a sunk cost,
an embossed letter-pressed
door-hung name-plate, too
ready to stay the way it is
until the dust says that it
would prefer not to. May
our lives become like the
horse: an ideal, in the shape
of itself, with a heart that
beats slowly as it stomps,
nameless, across the desert.
Roman Ryan 