Principles are like the edge of the glimmer
when the sun hits a window a quarter mile away;
these shimmers swim to the eye and pretend
to show the nature of the nature of the sun.
This is a stun. A fun grin, bunched up at the neuron's
edge. Falling. Not falling to the center of the truth
of the unfurtive fusion whose curt heat heeds only
the blockage that a planet stands to grain.
An idea is like this, this shadow of a shard
of a light lucidity. To know a thing, though,
a mind must swim back and forth and forth and forth
through the murk and brine and bilks,
eventually pulling the silk as a screen,
catching the krill of the totality of the ideal
that is horse of a course of a seahorse.
Swim. Swim again. This is the only way
to know the water.
Roman Ryan 