Fortunes favor the cold
building selves up
out of glacier shelves
remaking old sounds
into new furniture
where we can at best
sit awhile.
I feel the chill coming on
forcing a new way through
a body that can only see one little
yellow light in the distance, and now,
with the daylight arrival, winkling
into sunrise starlight, also known
as out.
There can be only one way to understand
the number one: two. And if I had a way,
it would be a way without that kind of
path. Math holds hands with broadness
in a braided way that cannot speak
the kind of lavender the sky whispers
to this morning mug
of quiet coffee questions.
Can we, sitting here, this dog and I,
become too many commas, become
a type of quest that lusts after cliches,
become a series of idiomatic artichokes?
Snoring a little on our wake-up stall,
waiting to become a couple of real boys
wondering when we'll wander into
the boat that will take us
to the sidewalk in the sky.
Roman Ryan 