It is dark and late
late enough that the fog
on the mountains gets mixed up
with the little, always-on lights in the kitchen
reflecting off the night window.
My face does the same
refracting through the laptop light
to show my frightful eyes
that they are frightful eyes
behind glass and a million miles
of invisible stars and bears and sage.
The mind, at times like these, goes idiomatic.
It sounds like idiot and automatic
for a reason.
The mind that should be at rest
inside the sweater that got shrunk in the dryer
feeling constricted by the ticking time
and the sleeves that no longer comfortably
approach the beginning of the knuckles.
Roman Ryan 