There's finally room for more than
[the]
human.
The room is bigger now,
a living room with a kitchen and
a toilet and a billion square kilometers
hot sand.
There are hands, two of them,
sometimes four,
and their digits can still count
the logs.
More than a fire's place, these days,
there is the totality's cosmos, the
cosmos' totality, every reversal
and rehearsal played again and
again. Functionally, a multiverse.
In some eyes, all this is a curse.
Those eyes are furry and blurry
and scurrying
across too many minutes
with too little mind. Yes,
that's a judgment. Impeach
me.
I'm just present enough
to be infected.
I defect
from this causality.
Whether there's will
or only spill,
the milk of the galaxy
and the silk of the worms
each thrill to the notion
that the ocean is more than just
an anthro-spasmodic word.
Third place? Another face?
Terror feeds the fearful mind,
plying the anxious with the wine
of a diner's fine chine.
Eat the meet, then.
Remember or forget.
The red thread,
yet another myth
whose pith manufactures
yet another width.
Geometers, frail geometers,
your railways were always doomed
to x into y down the z.
People are not the 0,
0,
zero. Never whir.
Never stir. Also,
we never
were.
Roman Ryan 