Yet another yet.
A net of new disguises,
washed up on the fishing boat:
masks, socks, and earrings
piled up like November first
at its suburban morning worst.
The brine shredded the toilet paper
and ate the eggs, except for a few shells
on Richard Nixon's face.
Yolks gave the boat's dolphin
the farts, and these interruped
the humpback song that prefers
the solitude of silent trenchant
sunshone glory. Blue as silver,
green as deep, unknown as
the masquerade's early evening,
when the genuine pretending
had not yet melted, debauched.
Roman Ryan 