Intergrid memories chafe
at their own ninety degree strangles.
That's the brut of memory:
its bubbles are the source
of new old now feeling.
Forgetting's moon gravity
roosts all too easily here
close to this big surface.
Purple. Purple comes to mind
when I think of the last time
we did more than speak. Did
I say purple? Light blue.
Regression to the personal
is as mean as a white bean soup
in the dining nook of the bunkhouse.
Another memorial flares
delivering a raised bed of garlic
a young mind hearing dope minds
define the meaning of new words.
The wind was up that night too.
May the varieties pass and pass away.
Roman Ryan 