The infinite game called poetry
goes to the ends of language
with a means that gleans
as it spleens
health benefits
with rhyme constraints.
The earth's materials
offer medium rarity;
words splurge on the sky
and give clearance
to lunar distance.
Why not love a useless spark?
Why not keep a fire burning,
a fire that combusts with
out-breaths and ingests
the wood of the forest in mind?
Five lines at a time,
that's an over-squeezed lime,
a green liquid opacity
bottled between hospital buildings
promising more metaphors
in exchange for illness
as awareness.
Roman Ryan 