There are no rose
hips here. These are
thorn hips. Each lip
comes close, lips.
It's a trip to trip
into these rips.
There is money
here. There is
funny here. There
is runny here. There
are eggs here. We
weary of leery, but
it is not for me to
stay. Or to say,
for this matter
stores its words
in birds, chattering
in the bush where
there perhaps flit
more than two.
More demands
than hands. More
grips than pips.
More styles than
wiles. May we move
on. May
be there will
be a place to
be for the shattered
be
ing that found a gerund
in a pool of mirrors
and decided
playing
seeing
lost.
Roman Ryan 