Your park lark sometimes comes
upon a stark afternoon, a boon of sun
under which a moon could not be tuned.
The runes on the asphalt melt to the chewing gum,
not a vice, a versa. Thrice you removed your hat.
Baby hands versus my preference for you to evade the red.
Stay out of the red, in your head and your tread.
In the middle of the day, stay out of the bright,
as if it were night, and you needed to stay in the light.
Also, test the swings before you wring out your sing
with the sting that overheated plastic brings. Linger
instead at the tree's trunk, a one bunk over-bed
where your cap would welcome your nap. But
it is a no-nap time, this hot breeze sublime. Your
eyes are clear: we will not close, not even to rest the toes.
Your tired feet jump, shimmering sweet green
blades, double shadowed until you drift penumbral.
You like the intensity. It matches your learning's density.
Roman Ryan 