Nary a nearness spears the clearness,
that tragic, faraway clarity that
screeches separation in its blank,
contrite face. All that attrition
smells like friction in the deeper
part of our fire. There is some
kind of We here. Who is an
eye to the first person? The
numerals remain our problem.
Value neutered people, spattered
by the former land. Now the land
becomes canned. One at a time,
one hour's crime, committed
to the fracture that smacks of
too little slack in the spine.
Flexion. Compression. Regression.
Natural advances, each as mythical
as a foundation. Will the royal scree
continue to run into the river? The
mice can only hope so, as the article
turns particle, deconstruction to
ocean. Motion speaks like counter
motions, stuck inside the recursion
away from the green. Good great
simple green. Phytoremediate
whatever remains of us.
Roman Ryan 