are we doing here?
Reading and writing
and, incongruously,
eating and sleeping.
How can these shapes
square themselves
into sufficiently simple blocks
for a simple mind
for my pimply mind
to pop?
And what will be the value?
How can value
also
support itself?
What architecture
of metabolism
can burn and burn
and somehow never
go out?
Inside spits outside
and outside carries itself
with the dignity
of a truer nature
a knowing that the wind
of the breeze
can scrape its cheeks
and that face will face
the sun and its needles
with placid grace.
This is where words
must always end up:
shredded and wetted
let to dissolve
in the branches
of the trees
of the sidewalks
already given in
to autumn's temptation
to leave.
Roman Ryan 