In too great repose,
prose takes over
until it fizzles out
onto clipped and closed
eye lids. Do not portmanteau me
for I am sitting in a rocking chair
reflexive at the ankles
ready to pounce
on both another line
and an extra slice
of idiomatic take.
if I am at a regular
table, on the other
candle, I will lose all
sense and capitalization,
giving up my i to my eyes
and living only in the
lucid visibility that arrives,
highly heated
benignly caffeinated
via the reflections of light
from anywhere but merely here.
Each pose provides a miner
with a pick or shovel or bucket.
And the worker must not be discouraged
even if he sits
like he would never have
a boss again.
Roman Ryan 