When only becomes lonely
there's little bone to break.
None at all, if the jelly
is to be bereaved.
Another line of nine spines
lost to the enamel indistinction
that follows a bank account back
to its insurer, to its life, to the knife
that brought claims to bear
on the jell-o heart.
It's an art, to breathe and oxygenate
a body without metaphors.
Do not try it too many times,
that's called after
life. And no one really believes in that,
it's only a grief at the naught,
at the outs, and oughts
and all the zeroes that laid down before
and threaten always to stand up again
in Delaware, near the beach, where a courthouse
stands up to all the human kindness
that a C-corporation could grind
into all the electronic dollars
that a farce might bind.
Roman Ryan 