There were nights,
green nights, spent
in an inner room's
closet of a little house
across a street from
a train's tracks in quote
unquote downtown
Stevens Point. That
was before a dream
of fire and steam, out
in a country, where a
child thought if you jumped
into a bush from a
second story, neither
flame nor fall might
hurt you. Even though
a fire didn't hurt,
it hurt. The moves.
Each move hurt. Sometimes
they hurt in a way that feels
like growing pains, and other
times they hurt like the end
of the end of the end,
and rain.
Roman Ryan 