Chunks of want
haunt the sub- and under-
conscious. The between
layer intermediates via
rhyme and the keeping
of interpenetrating time.
The metronome of desire
sweeps contretemps
under the rug of a
fire, to fuel this prickly
sweet mire. I see voluminous
basil, traveling side to side
in the middle morning shine.
Do I want this green in my
mien? I might not say never.
But the Zen of ten after ten
speaks plenty inside without
a wide mouth bottle of have.
My glacier is filled with gravel.
Travel takes me to a place
does not mark space. Flowers
are pollenated with only
the lashes on my left eye.
Roman Ryan 