This verse cannot curse
anyone. It is a trip
through this exact
monument to time,
this moment in lime,
a fomented rhyme
defining the lining
of any given stomach.
Go to the bank, there
is a farce called funny
in the tubes that turret
to protect the mind
from serious things.
Money! That was
the curd that curdled
like a cheese in a garden
that is now a wasp's clasp,
gasping with the life
of the former moo,
a dead bread as hot
as the breeze. Incant.
Recant. Unplant. When
it's all pulled up, full
out and empty the
binge of bins,
glarifying the
clear water,
full of fault,
lightly salted.
Roman Ryan 