Precision derision concentrates hate.
Willful collisions between fate and
trait, bait and wait, frail and fail
explode into tired fireballs, not
even orange enough to call to
mind a fireplace, just purple
enough to give a sailor pause
at dawn. Fawn over the meadow
as winter wanders into its
simpering micro-season,
its treasonous, sunless
squalor, pallid as a valid
parlor trick. The mountain
would monitor this conversation
if it could only hear what is being
spread. Snow crows at the ravens,
insistent that predation should produce
sufficient scraps to feed a murder.
Roman Ryan 