When want strikes,
its non-obvious spikes shiver
where they are stuck, which
is just below the sternum,
where the fire in the belly
turns to jelly, willing the
mush to be mushed into
a hitching line or a new,
floppier spine, by the power
of a look held in the crook
of some new nose. Yes, there are
two smells seeking to smell
the other welling, spelling
possibility's impossible porcupine,
a fickle sticky adjective not in
the least verb convertible.
Hello, again. Our lives have
touched and that is much.
Such and such seasons
have reasoned against
a storm today. This afternoon
will be a night of our collective
wholes, one star each. Did
I mention that desire manufactures
tension? I probably forgot. I built my
self out of forgetting. Those bricks
are on the ground now, inviolate,
having become memory. I
remember and therefore am
left wanting, doing the right
thing.
Roman Ryan 