The practice of practice
is the only praxis
for ataraxic life.
Intact, continuation
residuals harder than
a canyon's creation.
Under nods,
yeses become epistles
according to the maturation of things.
One gets a little testamental
in the instrumental afternoon
as the sun, tempestuous, lurks horizontal.
Winter has dawned,
a season whose practices
are tactical interstices
stitched together by fortune
and foldable airs
put on by the largest rocks
and patterns of molecular
interjection at the hedge-line
of our conversational epoch.
Roman Ryan 