Blunt destinies blue under
failing to faded yellow
as the fall falls out with
sunflower previousness.
Down, down, overdown
sweet geese. You learned
to helicopter over petals
and pollenate giant possibilities.
Flocks of honey come out of
your insistence on writing
letters to V, even though V will
only form loveless near-triangles.
Get started on form, functions.
Your definitions are once again
second persons, ugly as a fin on
a fish that couldn't wish less
for an ending that feels less
like an appending than like
an origination, as original
as a scheme in which no one
is the third fool. Writers try
to find out what effort can lead
to, ruing again and again the
failure of sentences to develop
loci of control. Paragraphs cannot
even brook this kind of uncertain
trout. The future continues to tease
the breeze with the possibilities risked
in direction.
Roman Ryan 