O excellence, you fickle goose.
You become slow when you lay
back. You merge and divest from
your homes at the drop of a dribble
of fat. Meat in a cast iron pan, tofu
in a too-spongy fried rice, anchovies
buried steep in a sauce. Food euphemizes
the prizes: first place and gold for a single
sip of darkness coffee. Migration and
feathers cover death with smell of
adaptation. To be prone is to be
off and on, like a phone, the
little number go up to indicate,
to go to show, that math is like
the idiom one is the onliest
numbness, in which re
petitions: a swirl of
affirmation must
letter betters with
f and d and ache.
Roman Ryan 