The cold body's authority withers
under the leavened sun. Rise, leastlings,
your feastings have looked more like
fasting and your plurals throw the s
into a pool of cobra moose. Give the
animal its due: it's hard to have no legs
and a lot of antler. Especially if there
are a lot of you. Dwell less in this
grace, glacier people. The ice time
has ended and the nice times may
be ending too, for those whom nice
things have come natural. Silver
spigots getting drier and drier.
The lyre playing only metal on
metal on metal. And a harp
in a pool on the ground
playing the rumblings
in the air by sight.
Roman Ryan 