One glint from one plane on one eye
with a second eye confirming that
the light gods are both particle and
close shave, living comma-free on the
edge of the Sierra Nevada, promising
to recycle all the bullets in them thar
hills. Shells! Friends and coworkers,
ravens and bobcat, do not deny an
old panther his skin, a young leopard
his leotard. This is a creek of a speech,
a leek of a potato soup, a katydid without
a dance, even though that word can only
dance until the frequency hits the smoke
and goes up in the bloke of a new day,
a Pepys's journal, or should it be
diary of a dairy, saying cheese until
the nows come home, roost, boost
themselves up to the upper shelf
of the cold coop, cooperative only
to the point of the point of the
period. I am listening to the bar
cast, the poddista's pedestal filled
with consternation and money,
each judged by the fudged art,
a Renault of a difficult Nissan,
a car of an electricity, as unelected
as a potion in a goblet, goblinning
without the intent to gargoyle,
a new Notre Dame without even
the smell of dust on rust on fire.
Roman Ryan 