Roman Ryan

I live on the heels
of my sweat. I do 
not sweat enough.
I keep my tongue 
out, evaporating 
speech, contemplating
my contemporary
reach. Will I breach
the teaching tree?
Will I creak and
wreak more money
spree? All I know,
I will breathe a few
more breaths. My
saline beads cannot
form a necklace if
they never drip
down. Jewelry
seeks me with
the fever of a
ton of cold. 
I will sneeze
rather than submit
to the coughing fit
that sits on the edge
of my yielding view.