Possession. Dirty curd, speck in the cheese,
heckled unease. And yes, having is yet calving
from the main glacier a giant hunch of ice, a hypo
thesis, hypothermic potential, kinetically filling
the hand, like a single bird from a flocked-up
bush. I mean gaining will gain on you, weigh
you down. And that's the only way to keep
from Icarusification. The acceleration of gravity
requires mass for action. The body you will lose.
The children you will lose. The mind you will
lose. The life you will loosen, letting the knife
fall when and when it may. The time you possess
mattresses you, holding your sharp bones in place,
letting you get a little rest before your chest
gets the best of you, sinking you like a slipped
ship into the dock-bound hurricane. Hold up
your candle to your eye. We can be here, holding on
to each other. Like an idiom. Like the cliché
that we are, having been here before, this language,
this fragment, this house of the house of the little
gone-before. The people who are smaller for the
no longer being. To lose is to be lost. To have
never had is to be lossless. Let's take the loss.
Roman Ryan 