What's the plan, porous hours?
Will you come through me,
or will I speak through you?
Will the seconds seep or creep?
Will your hands skip around the clock
or skitter from number to numbness,
losing track of why you keep getting
so unsustainably dizzy?
Will the day eat you, little segments?
Or will you loom, will you barge
into the woolly world and stop
the weeks from pretending
to assemble themselves with your
disconnected bricks?
Will you drive fast and take things?
Will you specify your conditions,
your premises for the making
of calendar promises, your
swearing staring uncaring
allocation of power and mint
and slop?
Roman Ryan 