Quietly, silence delivers its eulogy.
A self can prewrite its obituary
in a way that a weather cannot.
Wealth, also, sits in the pews
and hews at the hard former
trees, showing the age in which
ash were cut and burned. Pluperfection
finds a flu for convection, resecting
every barrister from every superlative
composition. Yes, syllables tie their
own shoes by the time they are
four. No, syllogisms cannot say
blood relation. Another genetic
metaphor wasted on gin. Wind
wounds the house on the hill on
the rock on the spill, the leftover
geologic detachment whose arms
forced gravel from a face of stone.
Roman Ryan 