May I remind you,
once more, that
these words have
been written before,
in this order, idiomatic,
in the dictionary, a
cask of cliche tristes,
phrases stitched together
without space, just enough
time for rhythm, and all
we do is repeat. All we
do is discrete reproduction,
spilt depleted disdainium,
the rejoinder that minds
mind when they find some
thing, bind some string, to
a remainder, long divided
by the traces beaned by a
twelve year old you and me,
a history of memory and
biography and tragedy,
romantically stitched together,
the way we have been,
thrown loop over loop
after loop.
Roman Ryan 