My tired albatross wings
flap
flap
ancient mariner over the brine
my soup,
my swells,
my inhospitable home.
To stop
is to stop.
I go,
continue,
thesaurus on,
dwelling across the breeze
when its calm forcefully replaces glide
with fly.
Misery flies,
happiness flies,
satisfaction flies.
My eyes are dawn,
red as delight.
My body lives as a dusk,
a permanent twilight,
so close to the darkness,
as if still
as if committed to the stars
instead of this little section of sky
where I go and go
as if I were the moon
on either side
of this ocean earth.
Roman Ryan 