Talk to me in feet,
tiny bird. You must
weigh less than the
thought of your weight
in my mind. Your fate
ablates my own, less time
than grime, less interest
than compounds that you
will not call your own. Land
separates us. Also air. Each
of your flights are too fancy
for my dirty wheels. My heavy
steps, steeped in rubber, cannot
rub the bricks the way you do
as you choose your next voice
and voice your next choice. Let
us stay in this hot place together
for a Nevada while. We will place
ourselves as bets and giant parcels
of government land. And if we are
lucky, both of our plucky bodies
will be scattered by these dry
winds to the places we
always wanted to fly.
Roman Ryan 