A tiny fragment of fealty slips under
the jamb. Those hinges need WD-40
or they are going to rub out the ZZ plants
from their over-wetted nursery rhythms.
Let yourself in, these doors are unblocked,
leaking creek into the river, tributary full
of restful geese. Birds drifting downstream,
black and white and stalled all over.
When the flow flows south, the mouth
of the delta of the change in the triangle
can be measured and predicated on the
prediction of a friction that once started
our fire. Let the art into the world! Do not
torture the reader, build a feeder and let
the cardinals come. Pope around and
find out, this molar sees the hard tips
of the pending pencil nubs, numb as a
rug in a bug. Give the nursery a little
more time, the babies will find the
way to language, linguist or not.
Roman Ryan 