Roman Ryan

Hand-dipped fear
in a waffle cone
not on sale, for sale

heads and tales reeling
with stale attitude
a postured crouch

couched into slouch
staring across a vertical
rectangle of else

tensing as if or else
were the only permanent orb
etched onto the stitches of the horizon

put that orb where the breeze songs:
back in the waffle cone
lick lick lick