My hands hold the calendar
and my eyes try to focus on a single
date. I am late, according to these
boxes. The numbers are like foxes,
sweetly raising their children.
The log on which these kits play
continues its life of recombinant
decay. I sit back and swallow my
lacks. My back tracks the hard
chair, my own stare, me
unaware. I would like to
let go of what I like and
become a grilled bike,
a medium rare two-
wheeled mic, into which
I speak my two-footed
down down down down.
Time traces space and
repeats its twelves
on the twelves, even
as incredible uncertainties
raise the specter of
shelves filled
with empty books.
Roman Ryan 