The exercise exercises
the imagination.
Wider than a blue book,
the definite sky orders
a steak with a side
of ham sandwich.
Small bread,
rare meetings,
a head filled with
approval ratings
nearly earned.
Annotated shortness
breathes breaths that
cannot be counted by
their enjambments,
as this middle poetry
decides to talk to itself
about its strategies for
making the game go
on and off and on and
cough, soft light from
alternating currents
strikes the filament
of my right eye and turns
this omniscience into
a first person carrot.
I fear sticks.
Roman Ryan 