Grams of marred surface
resurface as grains of bland
beaches, handed to the tongue
by a body-mashing wave.
Oh, there you go again,
language. Playing your
games, inciting your names,
caterwauling against the
flying of your kite.
You don't know death
like I do. You can tell me
what it means. But I can
tell you its surface area
and its volume, both in decibels
and in imperial pinches.
A tiny image.
A short inscription.
A plaque.
A statue, not at all statuesque.
Memory is the enemy.
That's what the present
gifted to the future; a
statement of abatement,
concordant with concomitant
transmigrations of scolded,
potent, knowledge-free holes.
Take the ball home.
The ball is home.
Home is where the ball is.
The heart is a metaphor
more than a piano.
I will play, seriously.
I will play seriously
also.
But I will need a minute
to recover
from this estuary of light.
Roman Ryan 