How many.
That questions keeps
coming to mind.
Also, the word
monuments.
Questions of progress
and legacies
and memories.
All these transient
transitional mice.
Skittering across
my unclean floor,
my lean stores
that will probably
get me through
another winter,
another frozen fountain
of foundation counting.
How much concrete.
Tell me, Charles,
when did we decide
that would be
what I would call you?
Your mother, you say.
I trust you,
and your proboscis
the sting that you lost
when we fought
to the near-death
experience.
I'll hallucinate
another few names
for our relationship.
Lend me a ship,
we can sail to the end
of the nail,
deep in the wood.
Roman Ryan 