Attain attenuation to retain superannuation.
That's called shivering for never.
May death call or may your breath stall my breath
and affix my prefixes to the edge of my mind.
Love you, America. Love is a shove that harbors
the place where it winters. Being there cowers
before the face of my survival. Another thing
that lingers, left blinker, dotted sublime. Ours
is an ours thing. Hours are a measured, definitional
thing. One little look, twelve little hooks, another
residual book, written with far more effort than
readers will ever put out. I am a sideways person,
if you're asking. If you're not asking, I am beside
the gangway, wondering about journeys as a
philosophy, considering staying home and
becoming part of the loam. Repetition's clovers
always have four sheaves. The eaves crave
soft idolatry: listen, my ends, my beginnings
are not an appropriate means. Appropriate
in the sense of long sentences, informal
shores, passive chalices filled to the shim
with vague not-quite axiomatic idioms.
Roman Ryan 