Possessiveness will get one
everywhere between itself
and zero. That's a decimal
question at that point, a
furtive fraction with designs
on a fractal knife. To be cut.
This is the purpose of proposals,
to compose prepositions whose
real realities feel compound
congenialities. To own is to
be owned. Such a reversal
has no novel, no Chicago
to it, no breeze, no Baltimore
squandering, no port of
stall, no eleven thirty
wish for a forty thousand
head herd of the tastiest,
wisest cattle. Poems are
mint, do not plant them
in your garden unless you
are ready for them to become
bready infinity, glutenous
parchesi, singular everythings
of green mountain casualty.
You cannot buy insurance
against these words, but you
can self-pressure. Pounds
live into square inches and
become feats of length,
should you extrude them
into a third second person.
Oh yes, this was a My thing,
a ring with a string siphoning
away the blood from the crud,
phytoremediating the sludgy
relations borne on a shivering
southwester like a series of
embers whose destiny is to
burn the houses which were
built from every third
former tree.
Roman Ryan 