West of East was a rest
home when lacking sills
I conned myself into valley
and back out, uphill middle
vested, vexed, where I had
to be to no longer be his son
and also lose my way, find my
personhood's coattails and use
all those notecards to sweat out
the harder winters up until the
minting of a ring cycle, a spelled
dry DIY partnership, you and me
and now one more you, looking at
vectors less askance together and
concatenating, sibilating signs
looking soon like billboards
driving up to the desert's
catbird seat and watching
the cacti and pine welcome
our son with the language
of a permanently fresh land.
Roman Ryan 