The mist on the top of the ridgeline
gathers and presses ahead (with respect
to me) the way the tired gathers on my
spine after another stretch of sleepless
distress. The strain pains so mild that
it is hard to subscribe. What are these
lukewarm newsletters, delivered to my
inbox in the midst of the night? Are they
my crows, submitting receipts for their
murders? Are they my cliches, calling up
the suffering I have wantonly distributed?
The asphalt always felt like it was going to
roll out on a three-week business trip,
and so I never stood in one place. Now,
with my concrete shoes, I am slowly,
perhaps too slowly, learning to breathe
underwater.
Roman Ryan 