until a monologue becomes a conversation?
How many soliloquys until the light breaks
a window of discussions? This dawn
shattered before I could catch its
purples. I was sharing my dreams
with the nearby minds
at the time. The morning wants
for nothing. The night demands no
thing. The middle of the day asks
to be asked. And the edges, those
between betweens, desire desire
and its participants, in as many
unrecorded pages as the trees
have seen fit to knock down
in this coniferous, fragrant
breeze. One pair of shoes
and a distracted gait. I
have made a list
of everything that
a person could jaunt.
Going places becomes
the traces of a sketch of
a nested passivity, a living
breath whose not at all
imminent death is less
to be feared than all
that not that immanent
time. Please,
say a few words
to me.
Roman Ryan 