Roman Ryan

I do not live in the past.
Fast lives through me. 
The personal person
prattles on about itself.
An object lesson for all objects
which cannot fail to object.
So, Seattle. You had bread
and its cousins. I had my 
head and troubles. Gray 
cannot prescribe concrete,
people must. All those sidewalks,
all those tears, not enough of them
mine. I needed to grieve a part of me
that until just recently
was still a hive. My bees
danced the comb, keeping
my hair too short to untangle.
How many times drunk,
that potency free tome,
that high cemetery,
when all I needed 
was to write
slow poems.