Roman Ryan

My face is bleary.
I wrote about elegance.
What is it? 

Why do I feel
inelegant?
When have I felt 
elegiac? 

What are these syllables
to a life that will die 
in worms and smoke?
That is the puzzle
of language.

A head on the table.
A standing, pushing chair.
A striding hurry.

The little perfect line,
the massive chaos
that became a cloud
of fickle perfection.

You can see it in my lines:
I warm up to them 
as I fall,

reaching the velocity
that will blur just right
before becoming
terminal.