How furtive can a motive become
and remain a forceps? Attention
can be grabbed, forced fully into
the slight light, illuminating our
faces so that we can smell each
other's noses. Sight's hooded
lidded loopholes scoop bowls
full ice dreams onto pavement,
scorched by the lechery of red
and orange and yellow limberers,
making stretchiness into a fragile
monument to the end of a lot of trees.
How many more times can a poem
dissolve into a mediation on the earth
and its dissolution by fiat, by harbinger,
by clamming up and out the anti-gravity
of the death rattle of fire that our prattling
backdrops. The explicit purpose of poets
and prosers comes out in the blanket verses
cursing the worse-for-the-bare-heckled-
hands that keep scrabbling, keep auto
completing more and more and more
thirds, pies, chartings that might yet get
a few good ships to a few bad harbors.
Roman Ryan 