Hurry up and fate.
That's the cry of the
ancient farrier, the
hawk of the albatross
of the eyes of the sea.
A passive chain of
charmless consistency,
a gloop, mooping around
the sloop, beckoning
more hands to the pores,
dry faces for the graces
that are always left behind
on cloudless desert days.
The desert is one ess short
of cake. Let them beat their
bests against the rocks, there
is no shorebird here. Our red
skies are not a plight, nor are
they related to light, if our
I can ablate under the
butter sun. Counter
softened or fridge-
hard? That's another
matter for the pupils,
unless they have
learned to hear.
Roman Ryan 