Sweltering feet
beat iced toes.
It goes, it goes.
An ornery tent
vented full of
the biting kind
of gnats makes
the Chesapeake
feel more like a
bleak bleak, a
beaker of Greek
yogurt that has
gone too far,
bacterially.
It went, it went.
Discomfort visualizes
an asymptote of
smote, a gloat
by vote, unanimous
in throat coat, un
recoverable as a
glance sent in the
direction of a savior
who will do everything
but save the day, the
play, the gray. Always
save the gray, it's the
only middle ground
we've got between
each piled vile side.
Roman Ryan 