Morning. The baby is a
sleep. Flecks flick the window.
A night of awake scream awake
nap remlessness preludes a
day of awake quiet write
coffee water walk. My eyes
are sparkles, next to old
flowers. The house and
its husband have left the
lights off. For every third
person, curiosity thirsts
until it gets thirded down
to the fourth place. Out
side, the dog earns his
definite article, following
and following and fast
following the furrows
in his friend's brow.
Thoughts brew weak
tired, screwing another
Philips head fastener
into another ear
stuffed with tax.
Collectors do not
receive their dew
in the morning;
they prefer a
modified gray
blue afternoon.
Roman Ryan 